


The Flower Bled Crimson

by ThisBirdWithoutACage



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Canon Divergence - Post-Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Emotional Manipulation, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Kidnapping, Minor Bellatrix Black Lestrange/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Not Happy, Obsession, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Possessive Behavior, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Stalking, Stockholm Syndrome, Third task divergence, This story is not going to be happy, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Unplanned Pregnancy, if you tilt your head and squint
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2020-07-19 12:17:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 32
Words: 189,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19973950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisBirdWithoutACage/pseuds/ThisBirdWithoutACage
Summary: He had waited long enough. Fairy princesses, after all, were won by men whose hard work and dedication entitled them to keep their rewards.She would soon realize her folly of having ignored him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Four weeks ago I had no idea this pairing even existed. My family and I have been binging Harry Potter movies this month and Barty Jr. has always been a character I've enjoyed reading about. I've been browsing through fics of Barty Jr. and stumbled upon this pairing by complete accident. Most of the fics I'd come across were Barty/Regulus, which is just isn't my cup of tea (no hate tho). 
> 
> So then the idea for this fic just wouldn't leave my mind. I literally spent a whole night a few weeks ago when I was unable to sleep just writing out my ideas for this. I'm pretty happy with the way it turned out, so I'm glad I can share this with anyone interested in reading. As usual with my stories, this is not beta-read, so any typos and such are all on me. I am also not British, so there might be some American instead of British terms that might have escaped my notice.
> 
> Please mind the tags! I do not take any of the tags listed here lightly. I've had many people in my life suffer from rape and such, and I have also been the subject of obsessive behavior from a member in my own family. So this is also therapeutic in a sense for me as well. If you feel uncomfortable reading about these sort of things, then this is not the story for you. I will leave warnings when there is rape in a chapter as to warn anyone who may not be comfortable.

For as long as Barty could remember, his mother had always been frail. Throughout his childhood, she rarely left the house unless necessary, always claiming to be feeling unwell. In her soft red velvet antique chair, she would sit with a book in her lap and a cup of tea. She loved books written by both wizards and muggles, and as a child, never refused to read to him a passage from whatever she was currently reading. He would crawl into her lap and listen to her soft voice, listening to her heartbeat and the sound of the summer breeze by the window.

 _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ were a staple in every wizarding household, so naturally as he grew up, he knew the stories. However, he could never understand why muggle books were written so dully. Stupid tales of fairy princess cursed by spiteful witches and no-named heroes who would save them made absolutely no sense. Why she kept them, was something he never got to ask.

As he got older, he began to visit her library less and less, scornful of how many muggle books she kept in the room. She never cared much for other muggle pastimes and rarely ever spoke of them, but she held a certain fondness for their books that neither he nor his bastard of a father understood.

Barty never understood what was _exactly_ wrong with his mother, only that she was often tired and weary of the world. Elowen Crouch existed in a world unto her own. Loving mother, adoring wife, and a soul that never seemed to be able to retain a strong grip on this world.

“You’re the reason she’s dead,” Barty Sr. hissed at him in a rare moment of acknowledgement. Mostly the man liked to pretend he didn’t exist and would ignore him for days unless he felt the imperious curse weakening. “She nearly died for you once! And now because of you she’s dead! Having an ungrateful, embarrassing son such as you killed her!”

He couldn’t respond; the curse prevented him from doing so, but the anger boiled under the strong magic. Even though he preferred the yelling from his father rather than the days of silence. Or perhaps it was weeks. He had lost track of time a long time ago.

Such a pathetic existence, his life had become.

But he would bide his time. Bide his time until an opportunity arose. All he had to do was be patient.

“Young Master Barty’s father didn’t mean such words,” Winky shushed him, petting his hair in a rare moment when he didn’t have to wear the stupid cloak. Not that it mattered much; he still couldn’t leave his bed unless “permitted” to. Winky, disgustingly pitiful, thought that she was comforting. “Master Crouch is a good man. A good father. Master Crouch loves his son, yes he does!”

If he were able to, he would have snorted and given the stupid house-elf a scathing look. Whatever love his father held for him was buried long ago. In the grave where his mother was currently residing in thousands of miles away. Winky was loyal, a trait most families found good in house-elves, but just as easily corruptible. She had known him since he was an infant, and still thought of him as the sweet, good boy she thought he had once been.

She snapped her fingers and vanished, leaving him momentarily alone without his cloak on. If his father were to walk in, he’d be furious. Yet just as quickly as she had left, she returned with a worn red book with golden edgings. She looked terribly pleased with herself, beaming from ear to ear.

“Winky has something to cheer Master Barty up! Winky knows she has found something that will make Master Barty happy!” Winky held the book up to his face, allowing him to read the cover. The book of fairy tales his mother read to him as a child. She kept the stupid thing after all these years. His blackened heart clenched painfully at the sight of it.

She opened a page up, only to then hear his bastard of a father calling for her. She quickly set the book down, making sure that the magic binds she had placed on him were still in tact before draping the invisibility cloak down over him. An annoying pitiful creature, he thought to himself as she disappeared. All the elves were, really. Pitiful, loyal to a fault creatures whose only existence was to serve their superiors.

His eyes found the page she had left opened. A page with no words, just a picture of a fairy princess with long trailing silvery-blonde hair and a sweet smiling face towards the man she was embracing. With the curse his father placed on him, he was unable to move. Unable to do anything but look and stare off into nothing. Or in this case, the picture.

He sat there staring at it, while Winky returned and began to dote on him. Underneath the imperious curse, he felt his anger bubble. The imperious curse, undoubtedly, had to be one of the strongest curses out there; hence why it was so unforgivable. Difficult even for some of the strongest wizards to break through. Under the curse, he just sat and let Winky feed him, taking care of him as though he were some helpless child.

Lord Voldemort would be disgusted.

“You just sit there Master Barty and Winky will take care of you!” Winky cooed, petting his head, completely unaware of how much he wanted to strangle her. She brought the book into her lap, and delight lit her eyes as they found the image. “Ooh, Mistress Crouch loves this story! Master Barty, may I read it to you?”

He couldn’t respond, all he could do was stare blankly back at her. She giggled like a school girl as she leafed the pages back to the beginning of the story. She spoke in that squeaky, shrilling voice that grated on his ears with each passing syllable.

“Master Barty is such a good boy,” despite him having to wear the cloak, she still always knew where his head would be. Curled up next to him all prim and proper as any house-elf should be. Her voice dripped of adoration. “Master Barty is such a good boy. All these years and you’ve been so good for Master Crouch.”

Well of course he’d been “good.” Not that he was given much choice.

“Mistress Crouch will agree!” it was sickening how she still spoke of his mother as though she were still alive. “Good boys deserve treats for being so good! Master Barty is a good boy! Been such a good boy for Winky and his father!”

So, she continued to prattle on about make-believe fairy princesses and other nonsensical things. In his trance like state of calm, it was impossible to do anything to tune her out. Still, her words shifted around like pieces on a chess board. A reward for good behavior, however forced it was, was an opportunity.

He knew full well that opportunity never knocked twice.

~

Years of waiting paid off. He prided himself on being a patient man and knew that being too hasty would earn him a one-way ticket to Azkaban.

But Merlin’s pants, he had forgotten how annoyingly aggravating school children could be.

That wasn’t to say they were unintelligent, by the contrary, Hermione Granger had to be the smartest witch in his class. Only a fool would fail to recognize her talent and despite her unworthy blood status, it would be unwise to deem her nonthreatening.

Still, it wasn’t hard to get everyone’s admiration. After the initial shock of seeing Moody’s scarred face, it had quickly been replaced with admiration and childish trust. Children, he mused to himself with dark glee, were much easier to manipulate than some adults. If there was one thing he prided himself on, was his ability to observe and adapt. Studying Moody for a month had paid off, and not even “the great” Albus Dumbledore himself noticed.

The plan so far was working just as it should. The students trusted him, those who knew Moody suspected nothing, and if everything worked just as he had planned, the Dark Lord would be revived by the end of the tournament and the Potter boy would be as dead as his parents. All he had to do was be patient.

A flash of silver caught his attention suddenly, pulling him away from his thoughts to where Potter and his friends were sitting at the Gryffindor table. In that moment, he saw _her_.

It was as though he walked into one of those fairy tales and stumbled upon a fairy princess. A beautiful fairy who entranced every man in sight without even having to try. She smiled at the trio, and a thousand shivers crawled through his skin. Everything about her from her deep sapphire eyes to the way she walked was a portrait of pure perfection.

It was only after she sat down at the Ravenclaw table that it dawned on him. A veela, she had to be at least part veela. It wouldn’t be too hard to find out if she was, but he had to know her name first. He had to know the name of the pretty haired maiden who had come to Hogwarts.

Fleur Isabelle Delacour, he found out later that night as he looked through his list of students from Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, was indeed a quarter veela. Beautiful, and from her transcript, a gifted witch who was quite skillful in charms. “Not just a pretty face,” he muttered to himself, the fake eye attached to his face taking in every movement in her photo. “An enigma wrapped in a little blonde riddle.”

He had met her parents once before, a long time ago, months before being convicted of torturing the Longbottom’s. Louis Delacour, who worked for the French Ministry and an old acquaintance of his father. They’d been briefly introduced, very much aware of his father’s desire for Monsieur Delacour to offer him a job overseas. Apolline Delacour he remembered as being inhumanely beautiful, with a smile that could brighten the darkest of rooms. How fitting it would be that he would become acquainted with their oldest daughter.

“Fleur,” he drawled out slowly, savoring how the name sounded on his tongue. “Pretty name for a pretty girl.”

That night he dreamed of a fairy princess. With long silvery-blonde hair that fell to her waist, she hid behind the trees, teasing him with her deep blue eyes. Every move she made, was a dance with expertise footing and graceful twists. Her mantle glittered in the moonlight, as a thousand sparkling diamonds that only enhanced how ethereal she appeared. Every step he made to get closer to her, she danced away like a ribbon on the wind.

He chuckled darkly to himself and raised his wand towards her retreating figure.

~

She was haughty, of course. She turned her nose up towards things she didn’t approve of (which was everything at Hogwarts), and made her opinions perfectly clear to everyone around her. She entranced the boys around her as she walked, making a great show of tossing her hair and looking like the goddess she was. She ensnared the hearts of almost every boy in the school and ignited a flame of envy in the girls. She held herself with grace and dignity, never batting an eye to the comments of the jealous girls. Her footsteps light, but her pace fast when she pranced down the hall

He ignored it at first. The way the adolescent boys would drool over her like mad dogs earned an eye roll from him. He would tap his fingers against his desk, or his wooden leg, in an annoyance he couldn’t quite place but would feel every time one of them looked at her. Jealousy, he later recognized, and tried to bury it down. Jealousy would ruin the plan; he had little time for stupid boys and an inhumanly perfect girl.

But oh, how he wanted to run his hands through her silky hair. How he wanted to mark that milky pale skin until it bloomed crimson.

It was annoying at first, dreaming of her almost every night. He would wake in the morning with his member throbbing until he took care of it. Hot, sticky, and unsatisfying. The little minx had no problem assaulting him with her beauty every time he saw her and remained completely naïve to how she plagued his dreams.

Walking down the corridor in the direction of his classroom, his gaze suddenly fell on her. Her satin blue Beauxbatons uniform flared around her flatteringly as she spoke in such a dulcet tone towards seventh year Durmstrang boy. A horrifying sense of bloodlust crawled throughout his body at the very sight of her smiling towards the boy. It howled at him; demanding him to punish her for even daring to speak to another man. It called for him to rip the boy apart until he was nothing while she watched, and he would make her realize her folly of daring to ignore him in favor of an unworthy Durmstrang half-wit.

In his dreams, he would chase her through the darkened forest. Through the heavy mist, she would run silently with her feet bare, and her silvery hair flying behind her. Her pale skin stuck out against the dark trees, and her silver-gray dress gleamed in the moonlight. They would play their little game for hours until he would cast a spell that finally knocked her down. Against her shivering frame, he would lay down before her, shoving her dress up her body, despoiling her as she cried so prettily against him.

He felt more and more unsatisfied with each passing day. So close to her, but unable to possess her.

Barty gave up trying to ignore it. When he called upon her in class, she eyed him with indifference. She saw him as a paranoid, washed up auror who had a habit of following students around instead of the faithful servant of Lord Voldemort. She rarely spared him a glance when he spoke, mainly speaking with those she deemed worthy of her presence.

He watched her, Moody’s eye especially useful in seeing through the brick wall that obscured the other eye from seeing inside. She sat with Cedric Diggory, smiling and running her hands through her silvery blonde hair so that it caught the light of the sun. He growled lowly in his throat as he saw the camera man gazing at her, the well-known emotion stirring something so ferociously dark, his hands curled at the thought of clawing the man’s eyes out just for even thinking of touching his little veela.

~

His desire deepened as the first challenge went on. He knew from experiences with her in class that not only was she too beautiful for this world, she was clever too. The boys didn’t even think of trying to charm their dragons. They used confusion, brute force and broomsticks to get their golden egg, but not her.

She stepped out into the arena, face stark white, but her shoulders squared back with determination. The dragon hissed, fire and smoke rising from its nostrils, but she did not falter. He watched attentively, hands tightening on his knees as her silvery hair danced in the wind. The dragon stared at her, utterly entranced.

He couldn’t hear what she was saying, but she was speaking towards the dragon lowly, wand gripped tight in her right hand. She smiled at the beast, advancing towards it with decisive footsteps and her wand moving in a complex pattern.

A sleep charm, he noted impressively, and from the murmurs from the crowd, they were impressed to. The dragon curled in on itself, claws flexing as though it were a cat and let out a loud yawn. It collapsed its giant head on its front legs, eyes closed in deep sleep. The crowd dared not breathe, taking in her every movement as she got closer and closer towards the egg. She was almost there until…

The dragon let out a great snore, a jet of fire steaming from its nostrils and towards her. He nearly leapt to his feet as the flames crawled up on her satin blue skirt. She did not scream, but her eyes widened in horror as she quickly doused the flames away with a quick motion of her wand. Yet he couldn’t ignore the quick glimpse of pale skin that showed when she moved, nor the way her now wet skirt clung to her body.

She retrieved the egg; the crowed cheered. She smiled and tossed her head back, as her headmistress made her way towards her. He managed to hide his lecherous smile with a quick swig from his flask, though it was not necessary the way the crowd was distracted.

“Just as much as a fairy princess as I am,” he remembered uttering those words to Potter not too long ago, tongue flickering momentarily.

~

He felt partially tempted to kill Davies at the Yule Ball.

His princess looked absolutely radiant in her robes of silver-gray satin, much like the fairy princess that plagued his dreams every night. She danced with more grace than any of the girls there, a good many of them staring at her with burning envy. Roger Davies gazed upon her as though he were worshiping a goddess.

Davies held her carefully, twirling her around on the dance floor as the other three champions and their dates moved around them. Barty resisted the urge to growl, the kind of growl that began in one throat and ended in another as the Ravenclaw sixth year laid his hands on her waist. Davies had no right to touch what was _his_.

He followed them into the gardens, the two of them completely unaware, as they snogged on one of the benches. She didn’t allow Davies to touch her hair, slapping his hands away as he tried, but she allowed them to settle on her waist. Never further, and if his hands wandered a little lower, she slapped them away once more.

They pulled a part momentarily for air, and he felt himself harden at the sight of her flushed skin and swollen pink lips.

~

There was no denying Fleur would do anything for her family. The youngest Delacour, Gabrielle, still at the bottom of the lake was proof of that. Madame Maxine for all her strength, had difficulty holding the girl back. Hysterical tears streaming down her face, she began to claw her way out of her headmistress’ arms. Her classmates attempting to help, but one look from her and the back off.

On a quarter-veela, he wasn’t sure if she would be able to transform into a fully enraged veela. With the few feathers that floated gingerly downwards on the dock, he reckoned she could if provoked even further.

The moment her sister, the Weasley boy, and Potter crawl up the dock, the tears resumed to fall down her face. The sisters embraced tightly, only releasing with Fleur reached down to kiss both boys on the cheek.

His jealousy flared, but he kept it concealed. Potter and Weasley were not a threat, he reminded himself. If he killed Potter, well, that would put a halt in the plan and possibly have him killed.

~

The Dark Lord would let him have her, he was sure of it. After all, there was no other Death Eater as loyal as him, save for perhaps Bellatrix Lestrange. If his bastard of a father hadn’t of kept him under the imperious curse, he would have spent his time looking for and serving his lord. He never complained; he even forgave Wormtail, the coward, for hiding.

If he stole her away, it had to be discreet. People would talk if a veela girl suddenly disappeared and no doubt they would scour the ends of the earth for her. She was strong, too, she would not go down without a fight. No, it had to be clever. Clever enough to fool everyone.

He had hidden the cup in deep in the maze, turning it into the portkey that would set the second war into motion. There were things in the maze that would raise the hairs on anyone’s neck. A sphinx, boggarts, blast-ended skrewts…an erkling. He couldn’t stop the grin from forming on his face. There had been much debate on allowing an erkling, something so dangerous, into the maze, but it had been allowed after discussing the numerous of jinxes that could be used against it.

Finding a way of “removing” her body would be simple. Something of hers could be left where the erkling was put and by then, there would be nothing left of her to recover. He’d leave her wand as an indication that she had been there and was unable to defend herself.

Finding some place to keep her unconscious form safe, was an entirely different problem all together. His childhood home would no longer be safe. If he was caught, it would be all over and he’d never have his princess. Yet there was someone he could rely on. Someone who would take his orders without question.

He found her in the near the kitchens, a bottle of butterbeer in her hands and a look of absolute sorrow etched permanently on her face. She curled up against the stone wall, tipping her head back to get the remains of the drink and gave a great depressed sigh once she realized it was all gone.

“Elf,” he said gruffly, standing before her form. She wasn’t quite drunk yet, but she did stagger a bit as she attempted to stand before him. “Follow me elf, one of you left a dirty sock in my room and I will not accept this type of behavior to go unpunished.”

From what he knew from Potter and his friends’ conversations, Winky was an absolute wreck. Non-stop drinking and refusing to do any work, it was a miracle she was still alive at all. Yet she wouldn’t refuse the order of a Hogwarts’s professor, clearly evident seeing as she followed him with her head bowed, sniffling loudly from the crying she’d probably been doing earlier.

She followed him to his office, her head still bowed as she closed the door behind her. “Winky,” he said to her in a much quieter manner. “Winky, is this how my father chose to treat his most loyal servant? To work for some crackpot old professor?”

Now, she stared up at him with confusion. “Master Moody,” she began quietly, a wobbly tremble in her voice. “Your father did not put Winky up here! Winky cannot speak ill of her new master!”

She gripped her head, seized by some unknown force. “Winky is a bad house-elf,” she lamented, close to sobbing uncontrollably now. “Winky couldn’t take care of Master Crouch! Winky has let Master Crouch down! Winky deserves punishment! Is Master Moody here to punish Winky?”

The effects of the potion were beginning to wear off. They didn’t have very long; he’d need to take more of it, but she had to see his true form. “Winky,” his voice beginning to take its normal tone. “Winky, look at me.”

She lifted her head from her hands, watching with wide eyes as Alastor Moody slowly morphed into a face she knew well. Her eyes filled with more tears, lower lip trembling with the promise of a full-on wail. She flung herself towards him, little arms wrapping around his legs. “Master Barty!” she cried, her tears staining his pant leg. “Master Barty, it is you! Master Barty has returned to Winky! Oh, Master Barty, something terrible has happened to Master Crouch! Winky is so sorry! Winky couldn’t stop it from happening!”

“Shush!” he scolded her severely. She cowered under his tone, but still gazed up at him adoringly. “Winky, no one can know I am here. You must keep your mouth shut. If you were to reveal me to everyone, you would be dishonoring the Crouch family name even further! Do you want that?”

Absolutely horrified, she wrung her hands in her tea towel dress. “No, Master Barty. Winky does not want that. Winky only wants to serve and protect the Crouch family.”

“Then you need to do exactly as I say,” he said sharply, and she stood to full attention. “I am going to get us out of here, but I need your help. If you succeed, I will reinstate you as the Crouch family house-elf.”

If possible, her eyes widened even further due to sheer joy. “Winky only wants to serve Master Barty! Winky will do what Master Barty asks!”

He smiled darkly. “Then you must follow my instructions very, very carefully.”

He had waited long enough. Fairy princesses, after all, were won by men whose hard work and dedication entitled them to keep their rewards.

~

It was convenient that his princess happened to be the one who entered the maze last.

It also happened to be convenient that no one could see through the maze. The cover of nightfall helped, but with the hedges over twenty feet high, there was no one around to know what he was about to do. The plan, complicated as it was, should still be simple enough to pull off. If Winky remembered to do her part, then the all would go according to plan.

The tracking spell he placed on Potter was working very well. So far, the boy had yet to run into anything too dangerous, and with Barty pulling the strings, he wouldn’t come across the truly terrifying things in this maze. Krum didn’t know where Potter was yet, so he had time before he had to save the chosen one from the Bulgarian thickhead.

Giddy with anticipation, he almost did a dance at the mere thought of obtaining her. She was close; he could feel it. He knew where the boys were, their footsteps loud and impatient as they trampled through the maze. Her footsteps were light, with the grace that only a fairy could have, and he felt himself harden as a spike of desire rushed through his body.

He took his wand out at the sound of her footsteps, inching closer and closer to where he was waiting to strike. She rounded the corner, not expecting to run into him and certainly not anticipating the stunning spell that hit her directly in the face.

Her body rolled a few times, but there was no doubt that she was unconscious. A long cut appeared on her perfect face, trickling blood, yet that could be taken care of later. Even when unconscious, she was still beautiful. He gingerly removed her wand, tucking it away while he observed her still form.

He could take her, it probably wouldn’t take him long. A prince from one of his mother’s muggle tales came across a slumbering princess and “gathered the first fruits of love”, from her unconscious form. No, he wouldn’t do that. When he was going to take her, he wanted to see her face as it morphed into pleasure. He would show her the folly of dismissing him for an entire year; opting to allure the stupid boys around her like the spoiled little princess she was. All he had to do was be patient for a little while longer.

He settled on appreciating her sleeping body. His hands, shaking, as they finally were able to run through her silky moon gold hair. It felt even better than he imagined, soft and smooth without a single split end. Her parted lips, waiting for him to kiss her, but he wouldn’t do it in this guise. How disturbing it would be for their first kiss to be in this dishonorable form. He wrinkled his nose, shuddering at the thought.

Despite her silver jacket to keep her warm from the chilly late June evening, it didn’t stop him from finding her soft womanly curves. Under her silver vest, his sharp eyes noticed her soft pale skin peeking out, waiting for him to touch it. His trembling fingers brushed over the material of her shirt, palm sliding up the warm supple skin of her belly towards the metal underlining of her brassiere. She didn’t even flinch, so out of this world that she did not even protest to his ministrations.

He forced himself to pull back, practically biting his knuckles to restrain the violent urge to rip her trousers off and take her right there on the maze floor. However, he wasn’t an animal. He was a pure-blood wizard who would take her in a more appropriate setting. With his lord’s blessing, of course.

Casting sleeping enchantments, while difficult for some, were not terribly complicated for a wizard of his caliber. Stunning her had made her unconscious, but this would ensure that she would cause no problems for Winky until he revoked the enchantment. He stood up, flourishing his wand in a quick pattern. Now, his princess would sleep until he deemed it safe for her to wake up.

With another swift flourish, her body morphed into something no one would question. A golden pocket watch sat where her body had once been, completely out of place in the darkness of the maze. He smiled ruthlessly, picking it up and letting the chain slip through his fingers. His part of the plan was complete.

“Winky!” he called into the darkness. He didn’t have a lot of time; Potter was getting closer to Krum. “Winky, it’s time! I order you to come here!”

There was, the small off chance that she would not be able to comply with his summons. She no longer worked for him, his father foolishly firing her. She had always been undoubtedly loyal when it came to the Crouch family name. He knew if there was anyone who would follow his orders without question, it was Winky.

She appeared with a popping sound, eyes wide with adoration. She was not tipsy, nor did she have a bottle of butterbeer in her hands. With the promise of being reinstated, she was completely sober. “Master Barty! Winky has come to help!” she kept her voice hushed, without him having to remind her to be quiet. “What will Master Barty have Winky do?”

“Take this,” he handed her the pocket watch, her eyes following its swinging motions as he placed it in her hands. “Now you know what to do next. Do you remember what you’re supposed to do?”

She beamed, clutching the golden pocket watch to her chest. “Winky will keep Master Barty’s new friend safe! I find a place far from Hogwarts to keep her all tucked away, nice and sound.”

“You’ll need this,” he took from one of his coat’s pockets his father’s wand, holding it in front of her face. “I am entrusting this wand to you temporarily, Winky. Do not let me down.”

Winky gazed at him with uncertainty. “But Master Barty, that is Master Crouch’s wand. Why does Master Barty have Master Crouch’s wand?”

He cursed to himself internally. He didn’t have time for this! Potter was getting closer and closer to Krum, and he’d be damned if anything prevented the plan from working out. “Winky,” he said sharply, but as she cowered, he softened his tone. “Winky, I had to take care of father. He was not a good man, Winky. He did terrible things to so many people. Including you.”

“Master Barty, you couldn’t have-”

“Winky,” he said more severely, and she stopped in mid-sentence. He knelt down, wand still hovering over her face as absolute sadness burned in her large brown eyes. “Father did Winky an unkindness by sending her away. I was a bad boy for trying to run away from you at the Quidditch match, but I am here trying to make everything better. Winky, you did not deserve to be forced to work in an ungrateful place such as this. Father treated you so terribly. Treated me so terribly.”

She scrunched her eyes shut. “Winky…cannot say anything bad about Master Crouch.”

“I’m not asking you to,” he could feel the trace on Potter move towards Krum, getting closer by the second. “Yet you, Winky, I am so grateful you were there to take care of me for all these years. I should have shown you how grateful I was then. But let me make it up to you now. I owe you my livelihood, Winky.”

She still looked like she wanted to cry, but she took the wand into her nimble fingers. “Master Barty is such a good boy,” her voice wobbled, lower lip trembling, yet she kept herself in control. “Master Barty may have done some naughty things, but he is a good boy. Winky is proud to serve Master Barty!”

With the wand in her long fingers, she bowed her head. “Winky will take care of Master Barty’s friend, yes Winky will. Master Barty’s new friend will be so glad to see you once you are back!”

He smiled wickedly, though it went over Winky’s head as she snapped her fingers, wand and his princess in her capable hands. She disappeared out of the maze, leaving no indication that she was ever there in the first place.

Now, he had to go make sure Potter didn’t accidentally die by Krum’s hands.

~

Polyjuice potion, while not necessarily painful when returning to one’s natural form, was still unbelievably uncomfortable. The only thing that actually hurt was the magical eyeball that popped out of his face, rolling onto the floor and swiveling in every direction

The leg fell away with a loud clunk and if he were not being held at the mercy of two wizards and a witch, he would have let out a sigh of relief. He wasn’t a particularly vain man, but he enjoyed his own appearance far more than the ugly, scarred appearance of Moody.

Barty’s world blurred as he opened his eyes, the motions of all the people there swimming around in a disoriented mess. Through the haze, he could make out Dumbledore and Potter, the latter looking so pale while the former stared down at him with a frosty blue glare. From the doorway, he recognized a stern-faced woman, staring down at him with horror. His old transfiguration professor, McGonagall, though now much considerably older than when he last saw her.

“Crouch,” he knew Snape’s voice well without even having to look at the traitorous bastard. “Barty Crouch!”

Dumbledore turned to face them, eyes searching. “Severus, where is Winky?”

“The house-elves haven’t seen her since this earlier this evening,” Severus replied dryly, dark eyes revealing nothing as they swiveled to face him. “Perhaps, Crouch here knows what has happened to her.”

Snape passed the bottle of _Veritaserum_ to Dumbledore, but before Dumbledore could even pour even one drop into his mouth, Barty let out a long, cruel laugh. “No need for that, Dumbledore,” he sneered the name, McGonagall’s eyes flickering with rage at his tone. He smiled maniacally. “I’ll tell you everything you want to know. I’ve got nothing to hide; ask me anything.”

“Albus,” McGonagall gestured towards him, disgust clear in her eyes. “Can we trust anything he says? It might be unwise to not use the _Veritaserum_.”

“If he is willing to offer information willingly, then I will listen,” the glare hadn’t softened in the slightest. If he lied once, Dumbledore wouldn’t hesitate to drop the elixir down his throat. “However, it would be a foolish mistake to lie to me any further, Crouch.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Professor,” he couldn’t help but grin. “The Dark Lord has risen, so my plan has worked exactly how I intended,” he glanced towards Potter. “Well, almost. The boy was supposed to die.”

“I would suggest you start from the beginning,” Dumbledore said so lowly, he almost didn’t hear him. “How did you escape from Azkaban?”

Bound tightly to the chair he had been stunned into, he began retelling of how he was smuggled out of Azkaban by his parents and forced to spend years under the imperious curse his father cast. Then going over the events of the Quidditch World Cup and how he stole Potter’s wand to cast the dark mark in the sky, alerting his master that he was, indeed, alive. Dumbledore, as he recounted how he disarmed Moody and locked him in the trunk, darkened with each piece of new information given.

“You killed your father,” said Dumbledore softly. “What did you do with the body?”

He told them what he did with the body, how he knew his father would be near the castle and how he stunned Krum in order to leave no witnesses. The silence in the room was deafening, and if Winky were here, he was sure she’d be wailing like a banshee by now.

“I offered to carry the Triwizard Cup into the maze before dinner,” he whispered, the ever-present smile not once leaving his face. “Turned it into a Portkey. My master’s plan worked. He is returned to power and I will be honored by him beyond the dreams of wizards!”

Potter took a step back, brow furrowing in disbelief. He could only imagine what was going on in the boy’s head; the betrayal of someone he thought he could trust had to have hurt. The feelings of the Potter boy were not his concern. He had played his part perfectly and now there was no need to keep up the charade.

“And what of Ms. Delacour?” Dumbledore asked suddenly, staring shrewdly at him. “One of the wizards patrolling the maze found her wand laying on the ground right in front of an erkling. The erkling has claimed to not have eaten a girl recently, and although the ministry has dismissed these claims, I am not so easily convinced.”

He wanted to laugh in the old codger’s face at the sheer arrogance he promoted. Not so easily convinced? Took him the whole school year to finally figure out that he was in fact not the real Alastor Moody. He snorted derisively, ignoring the glares from both McGonagall and Severus.

“I stunned the Delacour girl in the maze, but the erkling could have appeared any time after that,” he paid mind to choose his words carefully. Even if Dumbledore already suspected him, he could do nothing if there was no immediate evidence to back his suspicions up. “If an erkling did get her, then she’s probably nothing more than tasty meat for the erkling to enjoy.”

Technically, it was not a lie; he had no idea where Winky had escaped to. He grinned at the spark of anger that crossed Potter’s eyes, making them burn like green fire. The boy stepped forward, fists clenched and jaw set, but Dumbledore simply placed a hand on the boy. “Minerva, could I ask you to stand guard here while I take Harry upstairs?”

“Of course,” was McGonagall’s reply, pulling out her wand. Her face pale, and she appeared to be on the verse of getting sick, but her hand remained steady.

Dumbledore gave Snape orders to go fetch Fudge before taking a limping Harry out of the office. Snape, still looking as though he’d been sucking on lemons the whole time, whisked himself away. Barty brought his gaze up towards his former professor, giving her a grin.

“Professor McGonagall,” he greeted her as though they were old friends. “Still teaching transfiguration? That Granger girl is smart, you must be very proud of her. Shame about her parentage, though.”

She pursed her lips tightly, keeping whatever anger she had in check. Her wand poked into the skin of his neck, his pulse dancing against the pointed end. “That’s enough out of you,” she warned stiffly, her green eyes severe. “No more talking or I will seal that mouth of yours shut.”

There was a brief moment of stillness in the room. He flexed his bound hands, the leather straps digging into his skin. The dark mark on his inner left arm stared up at his old professor mockingly, and she stared down at it with absolute loathing. He hated the woman. Just like Dumbledore, she was arrogant. Disrespectful when addressing his master as “You Know Who”, as though she had any right to speak of him. She remained, much to his annoyance, a formidable opponent that only those seeking a death wish would challenge her hastily.

She was not, however, immune to surprise attacks.

He didn’t even see a new person entire the room until the stupefying spell hit McGonagall square in the back. Her eyes widened, not even realizing she’d been hit so suddenly as she collapsed on the floor in front of his chair, wand scattering out her hand and rolling under a table.

“Master Barty! Winky has come to save Master Barty!” Winky stood before him, brown eyes glittering with pride at her achievement of taking out a skilled witch. She hopped up and down eagerly, dancing as she stepped over the unconscious form of McGonagall. “Winky will free Master Barty from these ropes!”

She snapped her fingers and the leather straps fell away with ease. He stood up, flexing his now reddening wrists with ease. “My wand, Winky,” he ordered her brusquely. “I am going to need a wand now, Winky. Father had mine locked in the family vault after I was sent to Azkaban, remember?”

“Oh, yes, Winky remembers Master Barty,” she bowed her head solemnly, offering him the wand. He took it and twiddled it between his fingers. Not the same as his old one, but it would have to do for now.

The mark on his left-hand arm burned, stinging so suddenly he hissed. “Winky,” he said through clenched teeth. “Winky, you must get me out of here. We stay here any longer, we’ll both be in trouble. You don’t want to return to the kitchens, do you?”

Her already pale face turned dramatically pallid. “Of course not Master Barty! Winky should have apparated us out the minute she arrived!” she looked upset with herself. “Master Barty hold onto Winky now; Winky will get us out of here!”

~

The place where they apparated to was somewhere he had not been to in many years. The house had once been a place he and his parents used to spend their spring holidays before he started Hogwarts. For seven years the Crouch family would spend the Easter holiday here before returning to their manor a few miles outside of London.

The little manor had been built in the early 1500s on the far outskirts of Salisbury by a prominent wizarding family in the Tudor era. Two stories high, built with gray stone and gothic in almost every detail. He remembered as a child staring out the stone mullion windows to gaze out at the oak trees that made it seem like they had found their own secluded little world. The days he would spend running around in the secret passages in the house, scaring anyone he came across. The manor had seen better days, a sore reminder of how much time had passed since he had seen most of the world. If his father had his way, he would have spent the rest of his life inside a house that had stopped feeling like home a long time ago.

Upstairs in one of the bedrooms, the most beautiful maiden in all the world lay tucked away. He had wanted to immediately go see _his_ princess, but the burning mark on his wrist instructed him otherwise.

He immediately apparated away, giving Winky instructions to watch the house and begin setting up barriers that would block anyone from seeing or trying to enter the house without his permission.

He’d half expected his lord to be still using the Riddle house as his base of operations but found himself mildly surprised to find himself standing in front of the Malfoy manor. A handsome manor house that grew out of the darkness of the dark hedges that prevented prying eyes from looking in. He could see in the expanse area of the house various trees and other types of plants. A wrought iron gate, grand and as old as the house itself, opened before him as if to say “Welcome”.

Ignoring the shrill call of an albino peacock, he made his way up the path to the front of the house, anticipation and excitement swirling together to become one emotion. His lord had summoned him to reward him, he was sure of it.

Or perhaps, a little voice that sounded annoying like his father, he had summoned him to make an example of what happens to those whose plans don’t go quite accordingly.

That couldn’t be the reason, though, he thought as he pushed the doors open. When Potter fell through the Portkey, the events that followed were out of his control. He wouldn’t have been able to join his fellow death eaters at the cemetery at the risk of blowing his cover.

However, he had become reckless towards the end. In his excitement for Lord Voldemort’s return, he had neglected to take more of the Polyjuice potion. In his recklessness, he had taken Potter out of Dumbledore’s presence, something the real Moody would not have done. If Lord Voldemort were to punish him on that, then he deserved whatever punishment the dark lord had planned for him.

Voices came up from the drawing room, hushed and sharp sounding. He stepped into the room, taking in the dark purple walls and the large ornate crystal chandelier. It had been a while since he’d seen it, but it didn’t hold his attention for very long.

The sight of Lord Voldemort had him on his knees before his master in an instant. His master, sitting in an ornate arm chair, with Nagini curling her long body around him. Reddened eyes met his and what appeared to be a smile where lips should have been. Lord Voldemort addressed him, voice high compared to the hushed voices of the other death eaters.

“Bartemius,” Lord Voldemort called for him, with no hint of malice in his voice. “How nice of you to finally join us.”

“My lord,” for a moment, he could not believe what he was seeing. Lord Voldemort sitting there before him, looking as though he had never left at all. He swallowed hard, uncharacteristically stumbling over his own words. “My lord, please forgive me for my tardiness. It was my fault that my cover was blown once Potter returned to the arena. Had I not been apprehended, I would have returned as soon as I could.”

He felt the eyes of the other death eaters on him, impassive, but eager to know their master’s intentions for him. From out the corner of his eye he could see Lucius Malfoy, the bloody coward, smiling smugly towards him. The smile didn’t quite reach his cold gray eyes, and the way he gripped his wife’s arm was the only indication he needed to know that Lucius Malfoy was afraid.

Finally, Lord Voldemort broke the silence with a hissing laugh. “Now here is a loyal servant who has not failed me. Even when under the imperious curse did his loyalty never waver! Here is an eager servant who was willing to risk everything to bring me back. All of you could learn a lesson in loyalty from our friend Bartemius.”

He still kept his head bowed, but he could still see Lucius’ jaw clench tightly in anger. The other Death Eaters murmured in agreement, varying answers of “Yes m ’lord”, and “Please forgive us, Master.”

“My lord,” he said after a pregnant pause, lifting his head to meet his master’s eyes. “I must confess I was not able to destroy the Potter boy for you. Nor was I able to capture him for you. I offer my apologies in my failure to serve you.”

There was a steady hiss among the others, expressing disdain and contempt at the very mention of Harry Potter’s name. Lord Voldemort stood with a hand raised in the air. The chattering stopped at once, all eyes watching the dark lord as he moved towards him. A hand gripped his face gently and he tried not to shiver as long cold fingers grasped his chin.

“Bartemius, your dedication is admirable. However, I must be the one to kill the boy. If you had killed him, it would have been a great disservice to me,” he didn’t flinch as those cold fingers tightened for a brief second, even though a part of him flared in humiliation at the very thought of displeasing his master. The fingers relaxed, and the cold look in Lord Voldemort’s face vanished. “The boy is mine to kill. I will only warn you of this once.”

“Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord.”

Lord Voldemort released his grip on his face, turning to address the small crowd of Death Eaters that had gathered. “My friends, let it be a lesson to you all. The boy is mine alone for me to kill. If any one of you manage to kill him, I will be,” he let the suspense hang in the air, the other members fidgeting nervously as Lord Voldemort smiled cruelly. “Disappointed.”

There was not one single person, aside from himself, who shuddered at that word. With a flourish of his robes, Lord Voldemort turned back to him. “Our friend Bartemius has done a great task, one that will not be forgotten so easily. For I am a lord who rewards those who have helped me. Am I not right, Wormtail?”

From the opposite corner of the room, huddling away, Wormtail bowed. “Y…yes, oh merciful lord. You are most generous.”

He almost sneered at how pathetic his fellow Death Eater sounded but refrained from doing so in the presence of his lord. The others murmured amongst themselves, gazing upon him with wonder. He didn’t even have to be secretly pleased the way other gazes burned with jealousy. They deserved to be jealous of him, he, who fooled Albus Dumbledore and was the reason Lord Voldemort returned to this world. Lips curling back, he smiled predatorily at those who stared at him with such resentment.

“Bartemius has served me well, and for his services, he shall be rewarded,” Lord Voldemort said with an air of finality that no one would ever dare oppose. “Bartemius, rise, and come forth.”

Slowly, he stood, and walked respectfully to the side of his lord. He stopped in front of him with his own beating heart thrumming against his chest so loudly he was sure his master could hear it. Lord Voldemort gazed upon him quizzically, and slowly, a strange sort of smile stretched out across his pale features.

“Tell me, Bartemius,” Lord Voldemort began. “Was Potter the only one you set your sights on during the tournament? Or is there perhaps something you are withholding from me?”

“Forgive me, my lord,” he said slowly, ignoring the other Death Eaters as they inched closer to hear. He wet his lips quickly. “There was a girl who caught my attentions. She was a competitor in the tournament, a Beauxbatons student by the name of Fleur Delacour.”

The veela girl,” Lucius sniffed, as if the very mention of her name sounded disgusting. He felt a hot wave of rage directed towards Lucius for even daring to mention _his princess_. “From what I have heard, she disappeared sometime earlier this evening. You wouldn’t have anything to do with that would you, Barty?”

“Why don’t you mind your own business,” sneered Barty, baring his teeth threateningly. “You disloyal coward!”

“You would insult me in my own home?” Lucius took in a deep breath, gray eyes blazing with anger. “How dare y-”

“Lucius!” Narcissa cut him off, glancing quickly towards their master. She bowed to Lord Voldemort remorsefully. Lucius begrudgingly followed her lead.

Lord Voldemort, however, stared at all three of them in what could only be amusement. “Is it true, Bartemius?” he inquired serenely. “You had something to do with the mixed breed girl’s disappearance?”

He knew his lord’s opinion on half-breeds; he didn’t make it a secret that he believed those with mixed blood were inferior in comparison to those whose blood was pure. “I took her from the tournament,” he answered without a hint of remorse. Which he, of course, did not feel. “My lord, I must confess that I have felt desire for her for some time now. She is a vain creature, thinking herself better than those who are far superior. I knew that if I did not take her during the third task, then another opportunity might not present itself.”

There was a chance his lord would be displeased, and if so, then he would regrettably comply with his master’s wishes. He expected his lord to show disgust, but instead Lord Voldemort tilted his head back to laugh. A long, cruel laugh that made the hairs on his arms rise out of nervousness. “My lord?” he asked softly. “My lord?”

“Bartemius,” Voldemort said, hand reaching up to stroke Nagini under her chin. “I admit, I would have never expected you to fall for the charms of a woman. Much less a veela.”

“My lord-”

But Voldemort stopped him before he could say anything further. “You have been suppressed for so long, Bartemius. For thirteen years you were kept prisoner in your own home. No power, no sense of control over your surroundings. I understand it completely. You desired her, so you took initiative to possess her. Even though making sure Potter ended up in the graveyard was your first priority, you did not let your own desires distract from that plan. Very few of my followers are able to do that. I applaud you, Bartemius.”

He thought he might swell up with pride then and there, and he took great pleasure from the way many of the other Death Eater’s glower at him once more. “My lord,” he bowed his head at the compliment. “My lord, if you permit me, I would like to make her mine.”

Lord Voldemort’s fixated gaze on him never wavered. There was, once more, a silence so long one could hear a pin drop. Lord Voldemort said nothing, but his cold bloodshot red eyes revealed everything. He was thinking, long and hard, over his request. He had to have been expecting it with all the talk of the veela girl, and with all of Barty’s work having paid off, there was no real reason to deny him such a prize, was there?

“You have served me well this past year,” Lord Voldemort leaned back in his chair, the thoughtful look replaced by something that looked akin to a smirk. “Very well, Bartemius, you have my…blessing to keep the girl as your own.”

Lewd laughter came from many of the men in the crowd, each one of them ignoring the glare Lucius sent them and look of distaste that crossed over Narcissa’s sharp features. He only bowed his head in reverence to the dark lord, not helping the thrill that burned in his veins.

He kneeled down before Lord Voldemort, bowing so low his face was practically on the floor. “Thank you, My lord,” he said reverently, giddy with the blessing he’d received. “Thank you for your generosity. I hope to serve you well in the future.”

“I am generous indeed,” was Lord Voldemort’s reply. “I only hope you can remember to not be so reckless next time. You were fortunate to have returned to us this time, however, to be reckless with a plan like that again, fortune may not favor you a second time.”

Admonished, Barty kept his head bowed. “I apologize to you again, my lord. My recklessness was my own undoing and I alone am responsible. I will learn from this mistake and I will not let you down again.”

Lord Voldemort’s eyes gleamed. “See to it that you do, Bartemius.”

He bowed his head once more before rising and stepping back amongst the other Death Eaters. As much as he desired to rush back to his hideout and awaken his beautiful princess, he would not show disrespect to the dark lord by rushing off immediately.

He could wait just a little bit more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the feedback from the last chapter! I am glad people are interested in this! I expect that for now, updates will be every Thursday unless I state otherwise. This chapter kind of wrote itself, so we'll see how the next few go after this. 
> 
> I didn't especially enjoy how JKR wrote Fleur's dialogue in the original series, so I modified it a bit to my own taste. In the instance where a word begins with an "h" sound (like: had, here), I will be putting an apostrophe in front of where the "h" is supposed to be. That's the only major change I made here when it comes to dialogue. Most of the French people I've met over my years in high school and college, I've noticed they don't really pronounce the "h" sound. 
> 
> TW: Sexual assault/non-con touching. Other than that, happy readings!

When Fleur came to, she quickly met with the realization that she had no idea where she was. Her eyes fluttered slowly, the blurry image before her sharpening as sudden dread hit her harder than the spell that had knocked her out. Her heart slammed against her chest, forcing the breath out of her lungs as the organs momentarily seized with paralyzing fear. This was not the Hogwarts Quidditch arena, or the hospital wing ran by a witch named Madam Pomfrey. This room wasn’t one that she recognized at all.

She shoved a curtain of her silvery hair back, her hands ice cold against her skin and she shivered. While the room itself wasn’t cold, the fear that coursed through her body was even colder than the Hogwarts castle. In fact, the room didn’t appear to be anything out of the ordinary, as far as rooms went. Obviously, she was in a bed, with sheets that smelled of dust and a blanket whose colors had long since faded from sunlight.

Wrinkling her nose in disgust, she carefully placed her legs over the side of the bed. The creaking floorboards were cold against her bare feet. The whole room seemed rather dusty, she quickly deduced, and it certainly smelled old too. Across from the bed was an old door that wouldn’t budge no matter how hard she pulled on it. The bare white walls were covered in cobwebs and cracks that indicated how long the room had been uninhabited.

Apprehension pooled in the pit of her stomach and quickly rose to her throat. She looked down, noticing that the clothes she’d worn before entering the maze had been replaced by a long white cotton nightgown. Now that she’d finally noticed it, she wanted to rip it off and hunt down the one responsible and demand they release her.

“Are you finished? Pull any harder on the doorknob and it might just fall off.”

A spark of ice-cold fear shot down her spine. Swiveling around sharply, she finally took notice of a man stepping out of the shadows of the dark room, his figure illuminated in the moonlight sneaking in through the window. She took a step backwards, chin jutting out defiantly as he stalked towards her like a predator who had just cornered its kill. “Who are you?” she demanded hotly, wasting no time with niceties. “Who are you, what do you want, and why ‘ave you taken me? Where am I? Explain yourself right now!”

The grin on the man’s became more terrifying as it gleamed white in the moonlight. “You already know me, _ma princesse_ ,” the French sounded so crude on his tongue that she flinched in spite of herself. “Or, well, you knew me in a different form.”

Her eyes narrowed sharply. He simply continued to smile wickedly, and as he did, his tongue crept out and flicked against his lips like a snake.

Fleur felt as though she’d forgotten how to breathe. Eyes widening, she took several more steps back until her back was pressed against the wall. “Professor Moody?” she couldn’t believe her eyes and she blinked several times. “Im…Impossible! ‘Ow can this be? What ‘ave you done with the real Professor Moody?”

“The real Alastor Moody is not your concern now,” he answered calmly. “My name is Barty, Barty Crouch.”

The name wasn’t unfamiliar, though she could not place where she had heard it before. Oh! She knew of Mr. Crouch, one of the judges from the tournament, but this man before her looked practically nothing like the stern-faced older man. She squinted through the moonlight. That wasn’t entirely true; he shared the same eye color as Mr. Crouch, but any other physical similarities stopped there.

The man before her was leaner, though it was hard to tell with his body mostly concealed under a heavy black trench coat. His hair was dark, made darker by the limited light source of the room and his dark eyes were heavy with something she wasn’t quite sure she wanted to acknowledge.

He continued advancing upon her, and despite the fact she was literally backed up against a wall, she glared at him defiantly. “What do you want with me? If it is money you want, then my parents will gladly give it to you.”

He stopped, standing a few feet away from her, and chuckled. “I don’t want your money, my dear.” He said softly.

Immediately, her hands dove around her nightgown in frantic search of her wand. Once more, the dread hit her hard, and she cursed herself for not having noticed it sooner. “Where is my wand?” she snarled, anger bubbling right with the nauseating dread. “Where is my wand, _toi salaud_?”

He ignored the insult, acting as though he hadn’t heard it. His reply hit even worse than the curse he used to knock her out. “You won’t be needing your wand for a long time,” his cruel smile didn’t even bother to clarify how long that time would even be, which made his statement all the worse. “If you really must know, it is with your family presumably back in France. There is a funeral to arrange, after all.”

The word “funeral” had her frozen. “What do you mean?” her lip trembled as she spoke, hands grasping at the material of her dress to steady herself. “What are you talking about?”

He took the final steps towards her, his taller frame crowding around her body and fanning over her face. While he didn’t necessarily smell bad, there was a dark, heady scent to him that every part of her screamed to get away from. Something unpleasant that crept unnaturally along the edges of his magic. It felt tainted; corrupted.

Being able to sense someone’s magic was a rare gift to have naturally. All witches and wizards could do it, but most had to spend years refining the ability. To have it naturally was something that along with her veela heritage, she’d taken great pride in. Now, she wanted nothing more than to get away from the man’s suffocating magic.

“Your parents, and everyone else, are under the impression that you were killed by an erkling. Those things don’t leave any trace of flesh around after they’ve eaten, so all they found was your wand,” he said this without a single trace of remorse, watching intently as her eyes filled with angry tears. “Those arrogant fools from the Ministry of Magic don’t suspect a thing. They believed the little ruse I efficiently set up without a single question.”

As he said this, she could see in his dark eyes a cruel little glimmer. She turned her face away in disgust, her hair hanging like a curtain over her face. He spoke of the ministry being arrogant, but it was evident from that gleam that he was the same. Tempted to roll her eyes at the unbelievable arrogance of men, she settled on focusing on her breathing in an effort to calm her heart currently slamming against her ribcage.

“So, what now?” she finally asked after a moment of collecting her thoughts. She forced her eyes to meet his again, refraining from flinching as his tongue flicked again. Her hands curled and uncurled by her side. “You ‘ave kidnapped me, stolen my wand, so if it is not money you want, then what is it?”

His hand reached out, long cold fingers tracing over her cheek lightly. She wanted to be sick as a thumb traced over her lower lip in a back and forth motion. He leaned towards her more, mouth a few inches from her ear as he whispered lowly. “I think a smart, pretty girl like yourself can figure out what I want.”

She knew what he wanted, how could she not know? The starved, hungry look in his eyes was one she’d seen countless times before. No matter where she went, whether it be on the sidewalks of Brittany or the corridors of her school, she could see it in their eyes. With most of the boys, it was harmless infatuation; most of them just beginning to see girls in a completely new light. Men however, the ones who did not resist her natural charm, gazed upon her with a hungry look that always made her shiver at the thought of being touched by one of them.

The way Barty was looking at her right now made her mouth go dry. She didn’t even try to deny to herself that she was scared; why wouldn’t she be? This man towered over her slender frame, crowding into her space. She also had no wand to defend herself with. Even as her eyes darted around the room to try to find _something_ to defend herself, there was nothing. He had her exactly where he wanted, and she loathed to think of what would come next.

“Non,” Fleur said firmly, her tone revealing nothing of the fear she was so desperately concealing. “I will not do that, not with someone I don’t know and most certainly not with a man like you!”

“Well princess,” she involuntarily flinched at his nickname for her and he grinned at her reaction. “I don’t think you’re really in a position to be denying me anything.”

“I will not do it!”

Under cunning eyes, he studied her carefully. The hand on her face had stilled in its motions, though the fingertips left an icy impression on her flesh. “You truly are spoiled girl,” he said after a pause, and though she couldn’t quite place the emotion in his voice, she knew it had to be something along the lines of amusement. “Prancing around like a princess and acting like one too. Everyday you treated me like I was nothing, but I still desired you so. It’s been difficult, I must admit, to have been this patient for so long. But if being under the imperious curse has taught me anything, it’s how to be patient.”

Enraged, she pressed a curled fist against his chest, pushing him back with what strength she had. “I am no princess,” she growled. “And ‘ow dare you lay your 'ands on me! I may be a quarter veela, but I do not parade around men like some common tart!”

He laughed then, reaching out to touch her again, but she slapped his hands away quickly. The sharp ringing sound of the impact hung between them thickly. He did not grow mad when she had struck him away, and now the look he wore was downright Machiavellian.

“You are a stubborn one,” he noted with a sneer. “But if you think you can stop me that easily, without a wand I might add, you are mistaken. I’ve stayed in this game for the long haul, so you are naïve in thinking I won’t claim you.”

She hissed. “I belong to no one! You ‘ave no claim over me!”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” he taunted darkly. “The Dark Lord has given me his blessings. You will be mine in every sense of the word. Much sooner than you think.”

His tongue flicked immediately after that, and she fought every impulse in her body to vomit. She felt the press of the window behind her, goosebumps rising on her skin at the impression of the cold glass. Jumping out was always an option, though she wasn’t suicidal and Barty could easily use a slowing charm on her. Not to mention she didn’t have a wand to defend herself with, and given how old he was, he more than likely had much more experience.

She ground her teeth together painfully. She hated this, being backed into a corner with no way out. Any moment now, she prayed someone would barge through the door; Madame Maxine or Professor Dumbledore, someone who could free her from this nightmare. A little girl she may no longer be, but there was a part of her inside that cried for her parents to come save her.

Yet her parents did not raise their _petite fleur_ , to be so helpless. She may not have wand or a good enough grasp on wandless magic, but she wasn’t what the Hogwarts’ girls referred to her as a “dumb blonde”.

 _“Stall him,”_ a voice in her head whispered, scratching against her brain. _“You’re a clever girl, you know how to use your wits.”_

By “wits”, she meant her veela charm. How resistant he was to it by now, she wasn’t sure. If he’d been strong enough to have the imperious curse weaken on him over time, there was the off chance that her charm, however much influence it still had, may not be strong enough to overpower him completely. Still, she would do her damnedest to not allow him near her again.

Not that it was something she could control, anyway. The assumption that she could turn her charm off and on like a sneakoscope made her roll her eyes. Influencing was not the same as controlling, and there was no guarantee it would work. Flattering the male ego seemed to go a long way in her experience. There was a reason she didn’t speak to Roger Davies after the Yule Ball.

She took a step towards him, tucking a section of her silvery gold hair back. He followed the movement with his eyes, and she inwardly grinned.

“I see,” she said simply, looking up at him through her lashes. He went rigid, narrowing his eyes, studying every movement she made. Instead of smiling she softened her face, the hostile look vanishing. “I ‘ad no idea that ‘e Who Must Not Be Named ‘ad so much power. Enough to ‘ave ownership over my body.”

“The Dark Lord has many powers,” Barty said vaguely, gaze still fixated on her. “You are a gift to me, for all that I went through to bring him back to full strength.”

So, he was back, she realized nervously. She had believed for so long that he would remain dead, but from how serious he spoke, she knew it was not a lie. She stepped towards him slowly, smiling coyly. “You must ‘ave worked so ‘ard, then, to bring ‘im back. I am sure that it must not ‘ave been easy for you.”

“It wasn’t easy,” he said lowly, tongue flicking quickly. “It took hard work and dedication to make it this far. No one is loyal to the Dark Lord as I am!”

“I am sure,” she stood closer to him now, her hands brushing against the edges of his trench coat. Through the moonlight room, she could see where his wand was located, but she dared not tear her eyes from him. “To ‘ave fooled everyone, including Professor Dumbledore, is a great feat indeed.”

“Very few have been able to do it.”

“Yes,” she agreed smoothly, blinking up at him with doe-like eyes. “But you are so clever. You must be proud to ‘ave fooled everyone for so long, including me.”

Her hands reached inside his coat, slipping slowly to where the hilt of his wand stuck out. She felt nearly giddy with excitement as her fingers wrapped around the wand. So close, so close, so close…

Until his hand grabbed her wrist so tightly, she cried out from shock and pain. Her other hand grabbed at his wrist, struggling for him to loosen his grip on her while he stared down at her with odd serenity. “Really now,” he began smugly. “Did you honestly think that would work?”

“I ‘ad to try!” she growled, pulling against his firm grip. “Let go! You are ‘urting me!”

He laughed, but his grip did loosen enough so that her wrist no longer throbbed with sharp pain. “You are a little minx, _ma princesse_ ,” again, she cringed at his bastardization of her native language, while he found humor in her struggle. “If it’s a game you want, I believe I could indulge you in one.”

His grip still firm on her wrist, he took out his wand and waved it in a simple pattern. It unlocked and opened before him. He stepped through it, with her struggling as he tugged her along to follow him through the dimly lit hallway and down a winding staircase. If she hadn’t been preoccupied with trying to tear her wrist away from him, she would have taken better notes of her surroundings. As it were, she soon found herself shivering against the chilly late June air.

He released her wrist, but she found she could not run. His wand jutted sharply against her throat, daring her to make a move.

“You want to play a game? Then we’ll play a little game,” his teeth gleamed dangerously in the light of the moon outside. “You run, and we’ll see if I’ll be able to catch you. That is, after all, how your grandfather managed to get your grandmother, hm?”

If it were not for the situation at hand, she would have given him a severe reprimanding. Her beloved grand-père did not win over her grand-mère with a stupid game of tag. The women in her family were not prizes merely won by stupid contests and old muggle tales. She glared at him heatedly. “My grand-père won ‘er over with love,” she said boldly. “’e didn’t kidnap ‘er and force ‘er to play stupid games in the middle of the night.”

He waved her off dismissively. “I’ll give you a 15 seconds head start,” his eyes darkened dangerously. “Then the hunt will begin.”

“What is in it for me?” she asked brazenly, not trusting him for a single minute. “If I win, you will return me to my family and turn yourself in to the Aurors.”

He leered at her, his smile hiding something she knew wasn’t good. He had all the advantages: a wand, knowledge of the landscape, and an array of tricks up his sleeve, but she would give all she had to escape from him.

“Very well,” he said with a shrug. “If those are your conditions, I accept. But if I win, well, you already know what I want.”

His grin became lecherous, further fueling her desire to get away. “I will win,” she stated. “Though I should warn you; I run fast.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” his eyes lit up at the challenge. He took a few steps away from her, wand dancing between his fingers. “Your fifteen seconds start…now!”

Without a single thought, she broke out into a sprint across the front lawn. In the distance, she could hear him laughing, but the only remaining thoughts she had were to flee. Into the darkened woods, with only the moonlight as her guide. She ground her teeth at the serious disadvantage at hand. No wand and no weapon of any kind to defend herself with. Only the deep, gut wrenching desire to get as far away from him as she could and find some help.

Being chased was nothing like the muggle movies she watched back at home with Gabrielle. The stars appeared heroic, sexy and in command of the situation. Reality was far removed from that pretty version of running to save one’s skin. Even without something to protect herself with, she knew that if she did not at least try to run, she would be ashamed.

_“Running away should only be used if absolutely necessary,” her mother had drilled into her when she was a child, months before her little sister had been born. “If you ‘ave a wand, use it. A knife use it to injure them. Never ‘esitate to save yourself, Fleur. If you must flee, then you get out of there as fast as you can. A bad person will not ‘esitate to take what they want from you.”_

At the time, she did not know what her mother had meant. As an adult, she knew all too well what someone would want to do to her.

She winced as a rock cut into her right foot, but she did not stop. Branches from trees scratched at her soft skin, but even then, she did not stop. How many seconds had gone by, she did not know, but the woods were a lot darker than she had initially anticipated. With her silvery hair and stark white nightgown, she stuck out like a sore thumb.

“ _Ma princesse_ , where arrrrrreeeee yooooouuuuuu?”

His voice sounded near, which meant he must have apparated. It didn’t sound like a bad idea, she thought to herself. Yet it was risky. She’d only recently passed her apparition test and hadn’t been able to do it since arriving at Hogwarts. She could do it; she knew it was still a viable option, but where to apparate was a problem. She didn’t know where she was, or even if she was still in Scotland. She could sense the magic surrounding the property, more than likely put in place to stop prying eyes from discovering the house and to prevent certain people from apparating in. Or out. Even if she were able to apparate within the premise, she concluded without a doubt that apparating out was not an option.

The best option for now, was to keep a good distance between them. If she could make it past the barrier, then she would have to take a risk and try it without her wand. A bold move, but anything was better than what Barty had planned for her.

Assuming she would be able to make it past the barrier.

Fleur tossed her head in determination. She could not let negative thoughts cloud her judgement. The opportunity for escape had reached down towards her like the silken thread of a spider’s web. She grasped at it with a desperate hand, against the surrounding disadvantages that threatened to drag her down.

She let out a sudden gasp at the sharpening pain that flared across her left ankle. Through the darkness, her foot had been caught under a curved tree root, her ankle twisting in the process as she fell loudly down among the branches and fallen leaves. Against the pulsating pain, she bit down hard on her bottom lip. Her throat tightened, holding back the cry of pain she desperately wanted to let out and her vision blurred with tears. Her ankle, swollen or broken, had to be added to the list of other disadvantages in her way.

A light cut through the darkness, though still dim through the mist and further away. Barty, it could only be the psychopathic man who kidnapped her.

She could hear his voice, with a mocking sing-song lilt to it. “You can’t hide forever, _ma princesse_ ,” she shivered at those words, steadily forcing herself back up with trembling legs. He kept advancing closer, his footsteps slow and precise. “Where are you? Come now love, don’t be shy.”

Shy? She was hardly shy, but now was no time to ponder over those words. She hid behind the wide trunk of the tree, her back pressed to it so firmly she winced at the feeling of the bark biting roughly against her skin. Her hair snagged on the lower branches, but she paid no mind to it. She remained absolutely still. So still that she could hear her own blood rushing in her ears and the burning of her lungs as she forgot how to breathe properly.

His heavy footsteps were loud as he walked purposefully through the forest. The light from his wand scanned the front of the tree she was hiding behind, and she prayed to Merlin and Morgana that he would not find her. He did not utter a sound, instead moving away from where she was hiding and further into the woods. She still did not move.

The moon had risen a little further in the sky, the waning gibbous casting an eerie light over the forest. She could no long hear him, nor could she see the light from his wand. The forest had gone ominously silent. With the exception of the tiny screeches of bats and the occasional hoot from an owl, the forest dared not utter a sound. It held its breath in anticipation for who would win their little game first.

Hesitantly, she took several small steps away from the tree. Limping with a soft wince, she removed herself from the security of the sturdy oak and found each step more painful than the last. She couldn’t see very well in the light, but she knew from the amount of pain her ankle was giving off, it had to be bad. If he found her and she ran, he would easily be able to catch her.

With her knees knocking together, she hobbled her way through the forest. The wind cut against her face, stinging the fresh cuts on her cheeks. Despite it being June, she shivered, wishing she had something else to cover her other than the nightie.

_“Stupefy!”_

A surge of bright red light shot past the right side of her head. Taken by surprise, she gave a loud shrill shriek of dismay. Her hair flew behind her as she broke out into a run, her ankle howling in pain. The previously unshed tears from her eyes slipped down her cheeks like raindrops. She dared not turn her head back, in fear of seeing him so close behind her. She could practically feel his hot breath on her neck, his tainted magic spreading over her like a disease.

Another spell whizzed past her again as she willed her body to run faster. Icy sweat dripped down her face, her ankle practically dragging itself behind her with each step. The world spun around her as each step she took upset her sense of balance. She couldn’t tell where she even was anymore, If she was father or closer away from where she’d started earlier.

This was just a game to him, one he full intended on winning. To tire her out until she couldn’t fight against him. She bit the inside of her cheek. Even if that was his intention, she would show him that the Delacour’s never yielded to those who would do them harm.

_“Impedimenta!”_

Hitting a brick wall was the only way she could describe the jinx that knocked her over to the forest floor. She hit the ground with a thud, limbs sprawling everywhere unable to move. In an instance of pure panic, she felt him kneel over her body.

In the dark, his eyes gleamed like black ice. “Got you,” he whispered against her ear, the tongue flicking out against the shell. She felt him grin against the back of her hair. “Looks like I won this little game, _ma princesse_.”

This time, she did not hold back. She let out the loudest scream she didn’t even know she could make. Twisting under him wildly, eventually landing on her back with her hands clawing at his face. In a desperate attempt to push his body away from hers as her feet kicked against him. He grunted as one of her knees managed to find his ribs, the impact giving her enough room to scoot her body away.

He growled in irritation. “ _Imperio_!”

Whatever independent cohesive thought or desire she had melted away like butter. Her mind stretched into a wide blank canvas, perfect for someone to slip their own thoughts in. Blankly, she stared up at him, and while a fleeting thought echoed in the very back in her mind that this wasn’t right. She tried listening for it, but through the vast expanse of emptiness, she could not find it.

“Fleur,” the call of her name from Barty forced her gaze to find his. He grinned madly, no longer covering her body with his, but now standing over her. “Fleur, stand up and come to me.”

Slowly, she sat up and with unsteady legs, stood up. Even while her ankle throbbed with sharp pain, her mind only faintly recognized it. All that mattered was making sure she did what was asked of her. She limped towards his body, his arms stretching out to her until she was finally wrapped in his embrace. His arms pressed her further against him, like a cage, and those nimble fingers threaded through her hair.

“Mine,” she heard him hiss in her ear. “Mine, mine, mine.

The most horrifying part was that she had no ability to refuse him. She could hear her own voice in her head raging that he had no right to call her his. Yet her voice sounded muffled, like someone had placed a pillow over the voice so that she could barely hear it.

His hands wandered down over her body, sliding along the curves of her waist to grasp firmly at her hips. Against her still frame, she could feel his desire for her poking at her thigh. Pulled flush against him, every plane of his body was pressed up against her. “Fleur,” he purred to her. “We are going back to the house now. You are going to let me carry you and you will not fight me.”

She didn’t say anything, not even when he hooked his arms around the back of her knees, the other arm supporting her back. To anyone else, they could have passed for a groom carrying his bride towards their new home. Her head lolled against his shoulder, and with every occasional flick of his tongue, she knew he was excited. Their walk through the forest didn’t take long at all; a few minutes at most until the manor before her came into view.

He carried her through the threshold of the house, and through the haze of her own mind, she swore she could have seen a pair of doe brown eyes staring up at her from the bottom of the stairs as he carried her up. He practically kicked open the door of the room she awoke in and set her down. She merely stood in the direction of the window while he closed the door, waving his wand to lock it again.

He came up behind her, his arms around her once more as he kissed the top of her head. One hand snaked up her body, dangerously close to her right breast. He murmured against her cheek, his tongue poking at the bruised and scratched flesh.

“Take off your clothes,” he commanded her softly. “Then go lay on the bed.”

He released her, stepping back to watch as she slowly slipped her arms through the nightie. The cotton gown pooled down around her ankles, and with precise movements, she stepped out of it. His eyes burned black with lust, tracking her every movement as she sat on the bed, scooting herself on her back to lay against the pillows.

Barty, wolfishly grinning, took out his wand and waved in a quick pattern. She registered the feeling of thick ropes wrapping around her wrists, biting harshly into the flesh.

Whether it was the sharpness of the ropes or something else, she knew not. All at once, the fogginess of her mind cleared and the horror and rage that had been buried came to the surface. She pulled at the ropes, which only tightened around her. She hissed in pain. “Let me go!” she demanded. “Let me go!”

“Ah-ah,” he tisked, wagging a finger at her as though she were a naughty child. “I won our little game, remember? Now it’s time to pay the piper.”

Her entire face flushed red at how exposed she was before him, her legs curling protectively around herself. " _S_ _'il vous plaît_ ,” she pleaded towards him, in a last attempt of reaching whatever mercy he had. “You do not ‘ave to do this. I am just eighteen; I 'ave never-”

“Never been touched by a man before?” he cut her off, mocking her with a leer. “Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to be gentle.”

“Non,” she shook her head vehemently. “Non, you cannot do this!”

He didn’t answer her right away, stepping closer towards the bed she was bound to. He stopped at the foot of the bed, shrugging off the long black trench coat, letting it fall to the floor with a dull thud. She heard him kick off his shoes and socks, leaving him only his black shirt and trousers. He slipped the shirt off over his head, revealing a lean body with a small patch of dark hair over his chest. However, she could see the outline of a few ribs peeking out over pale skin and a few scars on his torso that hinted at an even darker past than she’d originally imagined.

With a dark smirk, he crawled over on the bed to kneel over her quivering body. He was close; much too close for comfort and a small tear slipped past her eyes. His hands cupped her face, right thumb smearing the tear away as he murmured lowly to her.

“Don't speak,” he said so softly she almost didn’t hear him. “Don't look away from me. Don't ever say 'no' to what I want or even hesitate. You are mine to do with as I wish. Only ever show lust; always ask for more, never less, never 'stop.' Please me and good things will happen, disappoint and bad things will happen. I hope you understand me; I'm sure you'd like to stay pretty."

A sob burst past her lips, more tears sliding down her face and he merely brushed them away. “Please,” she whispered brokenly. “Please, do not do this!”

“Shhh,” he hushed her quickly, stroking her face. “Don’t cry, _ma princesse_ , not yet.”

His lips brushed against hers. Not innocently, like a tease but hot, possessive, passionate and demanding. She protested against him, attempting to pull her face away, but his fingers gripped her face even tighter. He pressed against her body, knees coming in between her thighs as he intensified the kiss with a groan. 

The world spun around her, and she found herself unable to focus on anything else but the feel of him against her body. The way he kissed her like a man who’d been touch-starved for years was threatening to make her faint. He nibbled on her bottom lip, tongue poking at the cut that had formed where she had bit it earlier. She’d been kissed before; she knew exactly what he wanted, and she kept her lips shut. He grunted in displeasure.

 _“Good.”_ she said to herself smugly.

A sharp bite sent her gasping in pain, and through the surprise, she realized he had bitten down on the cut of her lip harshly. He lapped at the blood quickly, tongue delving into her mouth with more possessiveness than before. She nearly gagged at the metallic taste of her own blood in her mouth, and when he momentarily broke the kiss, he smiled down at her.

With her own vision blurring, she pleaded once more. “Do not do this to me,” she croaked raggedly. “Please, let me go!”

He kissed her in a strange form of tenderness, gazing up at her through hazy lust filled eyes. “My dear,” his lips brushed against hers as he spoke, voice revealing nothing but cruel intentions. “We’re just getting started.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spraining your ankle hurts. I sprained mine with I took pointe classes and my ankle hurt for weeks. Fleur running on it probably made it worse. 
> 
> A few quick French Translations (I don't speak French, so please forgive my inaccuracies. If you have a better translation for something, please let me know ^^  
> Ma princesse- My princess  
> toi salaud- You bastard  
> Petite Fleur- Little Flower  
> grand-mère/père- Grandmother/Grandfather  
> S'il vous plaît- Please  
> Non- No
> 
> Magic sensing is something I've come across in other Harry Potter fanfics, and I think it's a cool idea, so I wanted to incorporate it here. Dumbledore, I am sure is one who can naturally sense things and in my FBWTFT fics, Newt is able to do it too, so I headcanon that Fleur can. I'll probably go more in depth with it in later chapters, so stick around!
> 
> Anyways, leave a comment and/or kudo! Bookmarks are also greatly appreciated. Hope you all have a good rest of your week. Ta-ta!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I'm posting two days early since this week is going to get busy. I recently got my old job back, so I'll be busy with that until I hear back about other job offers in relation to my career. So from now on, I will be updating on Tuesdays. I'll try to give a quick heads up in case that doesn't happen. This chapter will be showing up on a Wenesday, but the other should be up by the following Tuesdays.
> 
> I have also made an edit in the first chapter. I said that the third trial took place at the end of May, but it actually took place at the end of June. Apparently my own knowledge of American school systems decided to intervene *Eye rolls*
> 
> Thanks again for all the kudos and those who commented. And for the bookmarks and subscriptions. I know this is such a weird pairing, but it's been a blast writing it. 
> 
> TW: Rape/non-con. I do not condone these actions, as I have stated earlier. Please read with caution.

As a child, the first time she could remember being discriminated against, happened when Fleur had been nothing but an innocent wide-eyed child. She had been around six years old and the spring flowers had just begun to bloom. She and her best friend at the time had been playing at one of the little parks when it happened.

Her best friend, Lucette, had been a rather plain but incredibly sweet girl whom Fleur had adored. They were inseparable, until the girl’s mother put a stop to their friendship. While they were playing, the girl’s mother had stormed over and grabbed Lucette by the hand. With a single searing glare in her direction, she uttered the words that remained with her well to this day.

“ _Ta beauté est un crime_.”

She only stood there as the witch pulled her daughter’s hand away, speaking very loudly to her protesting friend that she shouldn’t befriend unnaturally pretty girls. That Fleur would only bring her down and children of veelas had an unfair advantage when it came to matters of the heart. The witch then went on to rant about mixed-breeds and such that Fleur couldn’t help the hot flush of shame on her cheeks. Her parents did their best to console her, but the event had opened her eyes to the negative aspects of being pretty.

Her friend rarely spoke to her after that, even when they went to school at the same time. She had taken her mother’s words to heart and from then on, looked at her like she had done something wrong just by existing. Even when her friend had long since developed into a pretty young adolescent, the jealousy burned away any rationality and friendship.

Now she wondered how much of the witch’s words were true.

With his cruel words spoken against her trembling lips, he kissed her again, with just as much force as the others. Inside, something had withered under the desperation and fear. Fleur could only acknowledge that her hope, like the flowers she was named after, had begun to wilt with the realization that this was going to happen. Barty was going to rape her and there was nothing she could do about it.

Her body shivered violently as his hands roamed over her bare body, goosebumps rising over each amount of flesh he passed over. Fresh tears burned at the corners of her eyes, falling hotly down her cheeks. He licked at them greedily, taking pleasure out of her misery while she laid there motionless.

“There’s no need to cry,” he murmured, head lowering down from her jaw to her neck. He kissed at the flesh, tasting it with his tongue. “Since you’re a good girl, I’m going to make our time here feel good. You want that, don’t you?”

With that question, his hands tightened on her hips and she nodded, unable to find the words to answer him. He grinned against her collarbone, satisfied with her answer as his touches continued to send electric sparks through her body. It was mortifying the way her skin burned as he worshiped her with his mouth.

He mouthed at her left breast, earning a gasp from her as his tongue flicked over the nipple, and another surprised gasp from her as he bit down hard. She squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to block out the feel of his ministrations, but her senses were buzzing with life. She didn’t enjoy being bitten. Davies had nipped her once or twice, but those were playful and never drew blood. She could feel the impression of him against her skin, and she cried out.

He had already moved on to her other breast, attacking it with the same starved ferocity as he had the other. In her mind, she could feel nothing but grief and shame. Even though she had already accepted that he was going to take her; in this state where there was nothing she could do about it but just lay there. Regardless of the facts presented to her, she grieved what was about to be unwillingly given to him.

When she imagined her first time, she had imagined it on her wedding night. With the man she had promised to spend the rest of her life with. She could care less about what other people decided to do; she was adamant about her first being with the one she truly loved. Now that fantasy was about to be tossed out the window along with her remaining innocence.

It was strange, laying there bound to a bed completely naked to a man she thought she knew. He placed burning kisses along her skin, as both a promise and reminder to what he was going to do to her. She swallowed hard. Why didn’t he just get it over with? Not that she wanted to be in pain or worse, bleed during it, but she hated how attentive he was being.

Barty stopped suddenly, lips lingering on the bruise he’d just made on her hip. She opened her eyes, gut twisting as she wondered just how long she had zoned out. Glancing downwards, from what she was able to see in her position, there were two angry teeth made bruises on her breasts. The lingering stinging sensation on her neck, shoulder, and collarbone concluded that there was at least some bruising forming.

He burrowed his face against the warm skin of her stomach, inhaling her scent deeply. Her heartbeat quickened as he wetly brushed the skin, kissing it as though he believed he wasn’t about to commit something so horrible. “I don’t feel as though you’re enjoying yourself,” those dark eyes met hers, black with burning desire. “Is there something else you would like me to do?”

“Get off of me?” she suggested with a sharp glare.

He laughed, burying his face against her stomach again and chuckled lowly to himself. His eyes raised to meet her glaring ones. “Come now, do I disgust you that much?”

 _Oui,_ she couldn’t help but think, and she could tell her glare proved it too. He frowned, moving up her body and she was not able to stop the flush from gracing her cheeks as she felt his hardness rub against her upper thigh.

“I might have been a bit rough,” he burrowed his face against her neck, lips tenderly kissing the bruise she knew she had. As he nibbled on it, tongue slipping out in an attempt to soothe the redness, she could only hope he wouldn’t leave anymore marks like that on her body. Abruptly, he lifted his head to kiss her deeply, without any warning.

“ _Ma princesse_ ,” she was beginning to hate his nickname for her, more so than she already did. He smiled wickedly. “I think I know something that will make you feel better.”

“Letting me go?” she snapped in irritation, refusing to let the growing panic show.

“I wonder if you taste as good as you look.”

Her eyes widened at the implication. Before he could even think of moving downwards, she clamped her legs shut. “Non!” she hissed angrily. “You will not-”

“Or I could take you dry,” he offered without missing a beat. “If that’s what you prefer?”

She didn’t want either, if he would have taken the time to bother and ask her. She didn’t want to experience pleasure during this degrading experience, but she also didn’t want to bleed and hurt to walk for the next few days. He smirked. “That’s what I thought. You’re a greedy girl, aren’t you? Wanting me to devour every single part of you.”

She turned her face away in disgust, and he chuckled lewdly against her breasts. Slowly, intimately leaving searing kissed down her body. By her ribs, her belly, both sides of her hips and trailing decisively down her navel. He lifted his head, staring down at her folds as though she were a delectable treat for him to behold.

Nimble fingers traced the line of her opening and she jolted at the strange caress against her womanhood. She refused to meet his gaze as those fingers felt at the small patch of curls, and to her own shame, a whimper escaped her.

“Never been touched before, eh?” he asked, pressing warm kisses against her inner thigh, earning another sound of protest from her. His tongue flickered out dangerously. “Have you ever played with yourself, Fleur?”

In truth, she had touched herself before. It wasn’t something to talk about with people she didn’t know, and most certainly she had been raised to believe that bedroom activities should remain strictly in the bedroom. Up until a few moments ago, she had been confident in her body. Now she felt nothing but shame for even knowing what she liked.

“So, you have,” he sneered, lightly tracing the folds. “Aren’t you a naughty girl?”

She wasn’t even able to make a reply as he spread her legs open. His thumb found her clit with ease, pressing against it firmly and rubbing it with ease. Not in a hurry, but languid enough for him to want to milk her unwanted pleasure out. She quivered at the slow rub of his thumb, biting the inside of her cheeks to remain quiet. His slender fingers lightly dipping into her entrance, only to pull back moments later to spread it across her the lips of her cunt.

“Beautiful,” she heard him whisper against the softness of her inner thigh. “My beautiful princess, spread out only for me.”

If her hands were not bound, she would have covered her face. Once she looked down at what he was doing, she found herself unable to look away. She wouldn’t lie and say the press on her clit was unpleasant, because now there was a tingling sensation humming throughout her body.

Her face went hot with disgust and shame. If her parents could see her now, she knew how they would react. Her father would cry in despair at her reactions while her mother would turn her face away from the sight of her disgraceful daughter with her legs open for a known Death Eater. Though her eyes were already reddened with tears, more prickled at the corner of her eyes.

She wasn’t supposed to be taking pleasure at the way he was using her body. Every movement she made in an attempt to close her legs and curl away, he yanked them none too gently back to where he wanted them. He added another finger to her, the two digits appearing in and out of her like a pump, furthering deeper into her than she had ever experienced.

“Please,” she whispered as more tears slipped down her face. “Please, you ‘ave to stop! I do not want this!”

“Hush,” he snapped towards her, and his voice sounded a lot colder than before. He stopped in his ministrations, his other hand tightening on her left thigh. “I can take away your voice; it would be easy for me to do. I don’t want to, but the more you keep fighting me, the worse it’s going to be for you. Do you not remember what I said?”

“Please,” she ignored him, tugging on the restrains on her wrists. “I’m just eighteen! I want my parents; my little sister! You can’t keep me forever! They will never stop searching for me and when they find me, you’ll be sorry!”

He growled low in his throat, removing his fingers out from her and wrapping them dangerously tight on her hip. “You are mine!” he hissed, a few traces of spit slipping past his teeth and landing on her stomach. He forced her legs even wider, earning a mixed cry of shock and pain from her. He snarled.

“You spoiled, pampered, ungrateful little bitch,” he jabbed two fingers in her, and she cried. He sneered at her displeasure. “I have watched you for so long, throwing yourself at anyone you wanted while I could only gaze at you from a far. After all I’ve been through to serve my lord! Kidnapping, acting as that washed up Auror, and oh yes, murder. All of it done for a greater purpose and at last, my lord has rewarded my efforts!”

His thumb pressed down even harder on her clit and she mewled in both despair and pleasure. He leaned down closer to her, and she felt nausea at hearing the wet squelching sounds coming from where his fingers were moving within her. “All of it so I could have you, the most beautiful, vain, selfish creature imaginable,” Barty said roughly, inserting a third finger into her and she cried even louder. “Those times I came near to killing any boy who dared to talk to you, including Potter and Weasley.”

Her eyes widened in horror at those words, face paling at the thought of what could have happened. “Non,” she threw her head to the side, breaking contact with his gaze. “You wouldn’t. Potter and Weasley…they are just boys! Children! They did nothing to you!”

“True,” his voice dropped lower. “But the youngest Weasley boy came awfully close to getting killed every time he looked at you.”

“ _Monstre,_ ” she turned her head back to face him, nothing but pure loathing and disgust in her eyes. “You are a monster! If you even think I will love you, you are mistaken.”

Barty had the nerve to smile. An amused smile that hinted at something darker, something she dared not place. The hand holding a bruising grip on her thigh released, only to then grasp her neck in a possessive hold. He didn’t choke her, she could only be thankful about that, but the hold was firm enough to let her know that he could change that at any given moment.

“Even if you don’t love me now, that’s fine,” he murmured against the flush of her cheeks, kissing the corner of her mouth as those hazy dark eyes trailed the marks caused by the tears. “You will learn to, in time.”

This man, she had realized a long time ago, was a different kind of insane. When she had originally thought of insane people, she thought of people who killed without reason; who never gave any thought into what they did. Barty was insane in his own type of way. How badly had Azkaban twisted his mind? No, how badly had Voldemort twisted him? This type of thinking she had seen before from other Pureblood enthusiasts. This man didn’t care at all what society deemed as good and bad. In his eyes, the only society that mattered was the one Voldemort had tried to build a long time ago. He would do anything to achieve his goals; achieve his lord’s goals and nothing would stand in his way.

Not even her. If the dark lord told him to kill her, he would do it without hesitation.

It dawned on her that she had to play smart. Running away without a wand had been a stupid decision and now she was paying the price for that. He knew he would win despite her efforts to get away. By injuring herself, she had made escape more difficult than it necessary. If she wanted to escape, she would have to make smarter moves.

She had almost forgotten about her ankle, and the now at the thought of it, it throbbed painfully. She winced as his leg brushed it, and he paused momentarily, glancing at it as though it were a mere inconvenience to him.

“I’ll get Winky to set it later,” he said, sounding a tiny bit regretful. “I’m sure it hurts.”

She wanted to yell at him: “ _Then quit trying to rape me and fix it!”_ But she stayed quiet. She refused to see what he was about to do.

With no warning whatsoever, his strange flickering tongue nudged at her clit before his lips closed around it and sucked. She let out an even louder gasp, not even realizing she had let it out and she then closed her mouth firmly. She couldn’t look away from what he was doing, frozen to the spot of watching his ministrations.

He flicked the bud with his tongue repeatedly, those three fingers still pumping in and out of her, causing more wetness to spill out of her. Humiliating was the only word she could think of to describe this. Made even worse as she couldn’t prevent all her moans from breaking through her tightly clenched lips, or the little gasps, and she certainly couldn't prevent her body from twitching around him.

The warmth that had begun to pool in the pit of her stomach burned hotter. She recognized it as the spark of arousal, and immediately tried to think of other things. She tried thinking of her little sister, but quickly shoved that image out of her head. She didn’t want to identify this situation with Gabrielle, or even of her parents.

She was getting close, she knew as the spark of arousal got hotter and the way her thighs tightened around his slender and lean body. They quivered against him, and her hips began to jerk up towards his face. He delved in lower, the pressure on her clit subsiding only to have that tongue of his plunge into her entrance and this time, she cried out even louder. “Non,” she desperately wanted to cover her eyes now, unable to force the pleasure away. “Non, stop!”

Rape wasn’t supposed to feel good; she and every girl out there knew that a man would rape them to assert their power. It was used for degradation; to show them how women were inferior compared to men. That evil men would rape them because they could, and they would even target girls who would be unable to defend themselves or have anyone believe them. Evil men didn’t take no for an answer, and felt that as men, women were obligated to serve them. Her parents taught her and her sister that they had to take care. With their veela heritage, there would be men who would try to harm them. That’s why she and Gabrielle always had to be on guard; to never show weakness to the opposite sex.

Fleur was strong; always had been and not just for herself, but for her little sister. She just never thought in a million years that this would happen to her.

She was getting closer, and she wanted it to be over. Even though she knew of what was to come afterwards, she could only hope that he would be quick about it. Her thighs gripped him more firmly, and out the corner of her eye, she could see a small trickle of blood fall from her wrist and down her arm.

Just as she felt as though she were about to explode, he pulled away. He crawled up her body, his foot brushing her ankle so painfully she lurched forward with nausea. He pried open her mouth with his, and she cringed at the taste of herself on him. The sound of him kissing her was obscene and when he pulled back, a single strand of saliva hung between them before he grinned and licked it away.

“You taste so sweet,” he cupped her face lightly, fingertips tracing the skin. “Like a flower.”

She refused to look him in the eye as he rolled off the bed. Her bruised swollen lips trembled as she heard the unhooking of a belt and the snag of a zipper being pulled down. The rustle of clothes as he stepped out of them as naked as she was curling on the bed. She had never seen a man’s cock before, and her cheeks burned red with shame and fear of what was to come next.

A ragged breath ran through her as the tip of his cock brushed against her wet folds, and in an attempt to push herself a way, his hands clamped down on her hips. “Be a good girl,” he said darkly, grabbing the back of her thighs to wrap around his waist. “And it won’t hurt.”

He slipped in, and she screamed in protest, pulling harshly on the ropes that still bound her to the bed. She could only be so glad for having been prepared earlier, loathing the feel of him inside her. He didn’t brutally force his way in, though maybe that would have been better due to the way he gazed down at her tenderly. Instead of brute force, he pushed his way in slowly, his cock hot and thick inside of her, seeking her warmth.

She was nearing the point of gagging at the full feeling of having a man inside her and he groaned once he bottomed out. For the longest time, Barty didn’t move, breathing heavily as though he were savoring every moment of their “union.”

“Stop,” she called out weakly. “Please, just stop.”

He ignored her pleas, opting to kiss her instead. His tongue swept over her lower lip, wiping away a bit of the dried blood that had remained. “Just enjoy this, princess,” he said softly against her lips. “I’ve waited months for this moment, and I want you to remember it.”

If it weren’t for the overwhelming pleasure thrumming through her body, she would have vomited a long time ago. The nausea still lingered there, but her body burned like fire that was only getting hotter with each moment.

“Please! Someone ‘elp me!” she tried a different tactic, no longer seeing the use of trying to plead towards his non-existing morality. Perhaps the brown-eyed creature she saw downstairs would hear her and come to her aid. “Please! Someone! ‘E is ‘urting me!”

She would have called out more, only to suddenly scream in sharp pain as Barty abruptly thrusted into her. She met his gaze, only to have him shake his head in disappointment. “No one is going to save you,” he sighed, giving another thrust that made her cry out. “You don’t need saving. No one is going to get through that door, so you might as well stop crying and enjoy this.”

He pushed into her with groans that sounded like a man that had been starved for years. He set the pace, and while she lay there crying, she still had the idea that he was going to draw this out for as long as possible.

His breath hit her in gentle puffs to the face, and he took his hand to remove the falling tears from her reddened eyes. She continued to cry harder, much to his apparent annoyance and he paused in his thrusts. “Stop crying, Fleur,” he used her name now, the sound of it making her cry harder due to how dirty it felt coming from him. He furrowed his brows deeper. “Stop crying; I’m not even hurting you.”

But he was. Each thrust served as a reminder that this was her reality. There was no going back from this moment and the weight of his words earlier set in. No one was going to save her. Not her headmistress, not young Harry Potter, or even her parents. The thought of her family sent a wave of grief to fall over her, her heart aching at the epiphany that she may never see them again.

“M…Maman,” she sobbed for her mother as his thrusts quickened and the heat of her own arousal spiking. “Maman, help!”

His frame loomed over her, allowing him deeper access to her as his pace slowed momentarily. “Enough crying,” he grunted, arms braced on either side of her head now as his face hovered inches from hers. “Your mum isn’t here; she can’t hear you. There’s only me now, think of me, my love.”

“I ‘ate you!” she wailed now, the ache in her arms throbbed dully as she thrashed violently. “I ‘ate you, I ‘ate you, I ‘ate you!”

He slammed into her with one brutal movement that sent her reeling. One hand moved to the back of her head, pulling her hair so hard she nearly howled. Her throat bared to him, she was given no choice but to stare up at his cold cruel eyes.

“You are mine to do with as I wish. You are mine to have; to hold, mine to fuck, and there is nothing a mix-breed girl like you can do about it,” he said this particularly viciously, the grip on her hair tightening and his thrusts becoming more precise. “If you weren’t so coquettish and flighty, I wouldn’t have had to do this. But you have left me with no choice.”

“Non!”

“You. Belong. To. Me!” he uttered this with a hard thrust between each word, his eyes taking delight in the way her breasts bounced with each motion, a gleam of pure lust and malice in the dark recesses of his eyes. “You have brought this down upon yourself. You’ll get over this initial shock eventually and see how silly you’re being.”

When she said nothing, he continued. “It won’t be so bad, in the end. When the dark lord wins, I’ll be there with my pretty little veela at my side. You just need someone to break you in. To reign in your wild ways. I saw how you looked at the oldest Weasley boy; you must be desperate enough to offer yourself to anyone.”

She attempted to pull her head away, but his grip remained relentless. “I met ‘im once!” she whispered, voice hoarse from crying and yelling. “I barely know him.”

And now she most likely never would.

He grinned manically. “You would settle yourself with that blood-traitor,” he snarled at the word, like it left him with a bad feeling, and she felt a new sudden fear for Bill Weasley. He softly stroked her face with his free hand. “All you need is a proper pure-blood wizard to put a wild thing like you in your place. Lucky for you, I am the one who will tame you.”

At the word “tame”, something inside her snapped. “I am no creature,” she growled lowly, dark enough that his grip on her hair loosened and fell away. “I will not be tamed, for I am no beast! You are!”

He clicked his tongue. “To think you would speak to your superior in such a way,” he didn’t look angry, merely beguiled by her words. “But you will learn your place. Perhaps if you were not so pretty, this never would have happened to you. Yet, here we are.”

She froze. “This is my fault?”

He grinned, kissing the outer shell of her ear as he whispered. “Your beauty is but a crime to this world,” he ignored her quivering frame, resuming his movements from inside her body. “So, I will take repentance from you, _ma princesse_.”

Now there were no more tears to spill. She blinked up at him brokenly as he kissed her, resuming his fast pace. She just lay there, too worn out physically and emotionally to deal with him. He latched onto the skin of her neck, suckling on the bruise that by now was flushed dark purple.

His hand reached down to finger at her clit, matching it to the timing of his gyrations. She arched her back, subconsciously tightening around him as her orgasm washed over her, and he groaned at the feel of her slicked walls clenching him. She wasn’t inexperienced to what an orgasm was; logically she knew she just had one, but she refused to associate a feeling of pleasure to what was still happening to her right now.

He was getting close; there was no way this could last forever. The pace he had set had become more erratic and frantic, until finally, he let out a loud groan and stilled in his movements. As she lay there, there was no way she could ignore the perception that his seed was currently inside her. At once, she felt a sense of vertigo.

For what seemed forever, he slumped against her, his face buried in her breasts. His cock beginning to soften inside her and she twisted uncomfortably. He caressed her legs, up to her sides and back down, placing kisses on her skin.

After placing one final kiss on her clavicle, he removed himself out of her. She cringed at the wet feeling of his remaining seed slipping out of her, merging with her remaining wetness and she desperately felt the need to go hide in a bathroom and clean herself.

She didn’t see that he had gotten up, running a hand through his hair and knelt down to remove something from his coat. She averted her eyes at his nakedness, and if he noticed, he paid no mind. He pointed his wand towards the ropes. “ _Relashio!_ ”

At once, her arms dropped to her sides, and she screamed internally at the buzzing sense of pins and needles that emerged. She had lost feeling in them at some point, and now they lay boneless beside her, like she had lost every single bone in her arms.

With a loud sigh he rolled over beside her, running a hand through his dark hair and staring up at the ceiling. He didn’t say anything to her, which she believed to be both relieving and aggravating at the same time. A relief because it meant he finally wasn’t paying attention to her and a vexation for her mind was now completely blank. Not a single thought ran through her mind. The only thing she was distinctly aware of was the stinging pain from the bites, the throbbing in her ankle, and the slow exude of his seed out of her.

She flinched as a hand suddenly found her hair. He had pulled himself up on his side, his fingers entangling themselves in her silken tresses. “It’s been a long time since I’ve done that,” he said, breaking the heavy silence between them. “Thirteen years.”

In her state of apathy, she barely registered his words. He leaned in, cold breath causing her to flinch as he kissed at her jawline. “You’re warm,” he nuzzled into the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent. “I haven’t felt this kind of warmth in a long time. Azkaban is dreadfully cold, you know.”

Azkaban, while a place she had no intention of ever visiting, sounded eerily similar to being kept in this man’s possession. She shivered at the thought of the dismal miserable place she had only heard in stories and read in books. A place devoid of any hope. Much like the hope that had slowly begun to dwindle away with every caress to her skin and every burning possessive kiss he gave her.

He reached downwards and pulled the blanket around over them. He tucked her against him, her head resting under his chin and the back of her body pressed up against his in a clear sign of possession.

“And dark; so very dark and cold,” his voice had hardened, his arms around her limp body. The grip firm against her still frame, and he clutched at her like a security blanket. “Even after all these years, I can still remember that darkness as though it were only recently that I escaped.”

She was tired, so very tired. Everything hurt: her body, her heart, even her soul. She wanted nothing more than to slip off into sleep, some place where he would not be able to follow her.

“The Greek muggles have a story where death kidnapped a goddess to make her his queen,” he started again, voice painstakingly close to her ear. “Similarly, I have also found my bit of light. My beautiful warm light. Isn’t that right, _ma princesse_?”

She couldn’t find the words to speak, the freezing numbness preventing her from saying anything at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A(nother) quick few French translation:  
> Monstre- Monster  
> Maman- Mother  
> Ta beauté est un crime- Your beauty is a crime (that should be obvious by now). 
> 
> Christ Barty, you're a creep. Go lock yourself back up in Azkaban. I now have the urge to wrap Fleur in a blanket and just profusely apologize to what I've just had done to her. Unfortunately I can't promise that things will be getting better from here (spoiler alert, they won't). All I can say is that she's probably going to have to adapt quickly, whether she likes it or not.
> 
> Also, we will be seeing the other characters. We'll be getting Barty's p.o.v. again as well as many of the other characters. While I've essentially tossed most of the canon out the window, other things will still be kept in place. That means we won't be seeing Bellatrix or any other major Death Eaters until January of 1996, which will be a while till we get there. In the meantime, I hope you all will stick around and see what happens next. Take care now!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the small little hiatus there. Writing this chapter with the little time I had turned out to be a little more difficult than I thought. My job is keeping me pretty busy, so some nights I come home fairly exhausted. Next chapter should be up by next Tuesday since it will be shorter. This one hit at about 7,000 words, so hopefully that helps. Thanks again for all the support! I appreciate all the feedback this strange fic has received. 
> 
> Also again, If I miss anything with editing (my spellchecker doesn't catching everything), please tell me. 
> 
> This is also a birthday gift to you guys since my birthday was yesterday (Wooh 23 years old), so I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> TW: There is an anxiety attack, so please be warned. I don't think it's anything too triggering, but I'll put it here just in case.

For hours she lay awake in painstaking awareness of the close proximity she was to her rapist. From the bed, she could see the silhouette of the moon’s light slowly fading as the hours steadily ticked on. Barty had long since fallen asleep, his deep breathing against the back of her neck, sending warm puffs of air to tickle her skin. His taller frame encompassed her shorter one, and those long arms she found were surprisingly strong when she had tried to pull out of them.

Fleur didn’t cry, even though the sick feeling that churned inside of her wanted to. Her eyes were sore and puffy, no doubt red from the crying from earlier. She was exhausted, both mentally and physically, but found that sleep would not come to her. So, she stared out into the darkness with nothing but her thoughts to accompany her as she waited for sleep to take her away from the nightmare she had stumbled into.

She eventually fell into a dreamless sleep by the time the sky outside began to lighten and the birds singing their morning song. As much as she loathed falling asleep in the arms of her rapist, her worn out body could not stay awake any longer. She drifted into nothingness, but even that was a reprieve from the reality she held no desire to return to.

When she awoke, she found herself alone. Fleur’s eyes opened begrudgingly, her body forcing itself back to an unpleasant world that as of yet, she had no way of escaping. The room had not changed at all since the night before, apart from the fact she could see it much more clearly. The only thing that had changed, was Barty’s presence. The side of the bed was empty, and she let out the breath she did not realize she’d been holding.

There was something heavy on her leg, and looking down, she noticed that her ankle had been wrapped in a bandage, elevated on one of the bed’s pillows and looking angrily swollen. Someone must have been tending to it while she was asleep, though that thought quickly darkened with the realization that these were Non-Magiques’ bandages. Barty could have healed herself, or gotten the one named Winky to do it, but he had purposefully chosen not to.

Better to have her immobilized than trying to have her constantly look for a chance to escape, she supposed, though her eyes narrowed in anger and her fingers curled reflexively.

She was also dressed, much to her relief, in the cotton nightie that was not covered in dirt and grass stains. Naturally, her skin crawled at the image of someone new touching her, though perhaps that was more preferable than Barty. Besides, from what she could tell, her body appeared relatively the same. Except, for a few major differences.

Fleur recalled what her friend, Sabine, told her last year when she lost her virginity to her boyfriend. “It was kind of uncomfortable at first, but it got better as it went on,” Sabine whispered to her as they sat huddled with their books and notes in the library, keeping an eye out for their librarian, Madame Gardelivres. As her friend retold her tale, Fleur’s cheeks turned bright pink and she couldn’t help the smile from forming. “Guillaume was so sweet and kind. I just loved ‘ow ‘e ‘eld me in ‘is arms and told me ‘e loved me. It isn’t at all like what they show in the movies, but it was still magical in its own way.”

That conversation seemed so far away now. Existing in another world that she wasn’t sure she could ever return to. Fleur wrung her hands together, a strange sort of tightness in her chest that lamented what had happened last night. If she ever got out of this place, how would she even begin to speak about what happened? Would she be able to?

She noticed the dull ache in her lower body, but compared to the bruises on her hips, wrists, and other parts of her body, it was her least concern. She examined her wrists, bruised and chaffed from pulling on the ropes that had previously bound her to the bed. They stung as she rubbed them absently, though she barely registered it as she then cautiously poked the hand sized bruises on her hips. She hissed at the sharp pain, and all at once, it hit her.

The emotions she’d felt before falling asleep hit her like she was a small sail boat out on the ocean, caught on a gust of wind. Her skin crawled with the phantom memory of his hands on her, goosebumps forming on every part where she could remember them. She shifted, not even caring how her ankle throbbed in protest, the slow trickle of his seed spilling out of her as she sat.

She shuddered, hands rubbing her cold arms in an effort to rid herself of his claim on her. Never before had she felt this disgusting; so spoiled and unclean. The tears stung against her eyes, but she wiped them away quickly. She was tired of crying; what good had crying done her? Yet, at the same time, that’s what she wanted to do. Hide somewhere where she could be left alone and just cry. Cry herself to sleep so she didn’t have to face the reality before her.

She could feel another session of tears coming on. Her lower lip trembled against her will and the tightness in her chest contracted sharper than before. In a quick moment, her breathing had become shallower, as if she were choking on something, but couldn’t figure out what. All she could feel in that moment was panic, despair, and shame. Any moment now, she was sure the _monstre_ would burst through the door, smile at her, and take her in her aggrieved form.

Fleur did not, however, expect a small creature with a large head and protruding doe brown eyes. The creature had pointy bat-like ears and wore something that she believed to be a tea-towel. The creature, a house-elf, smiled at her widely. “Winky is glad to see Master Barty’s friend is awake,” the house-elf, Winky, said in a high-pitched squeaky voice. Yet, she did seem very happy that Fleur was awake. “Master Barty said to let Mistress rest as long as she wants, so Winky has been careful not to wake Mistress. Is Mistress hungry?”

She wasn’t really hungry, but Fleur knew better than to skip meals. It was better to plan a new way to escape on a full stomach rather than an empty one. As much as she hated English food, it was better than starving. “Oui,” she said, and then immediately corrected herself. “Yes.” How was she supposed to know if the house-elf understood French or not?

Winky’s face brightened. “Winky will be back with food for Mistress. Mistress, just stay there and rest and Winky will be right back.”

The house-elf disappeared with a popping sound, discorporating out of sight and leaving Fleur alone once more. She wasn’t alone for very long when Winky returned suddenly, with a silver tray in her hands. The tray levitated out of her hands and into Fleur’s lap, where the lid to her food was suddenly removed. Perhaps she had been hungrier than she’d realized, she mused, when the aroma of the hot food hit her nose. Her stomach rumbled in response, and other than the meal she’d eaten before entering the maze, she hadn’t eaten anything since.

“Thank you,” she said to Winky, remembering to use English this time. Winky smiled at her, stepping back away from the bed and keeping her eyes lowered to the floor as Fleur picked up the fork and knife. It was certainly food she’d become accustomed to over the years: roasted beef, roast potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, assorted vegetables, stuffing and gravy. Even though she missed the food she was used to and had complained about Hogwarts’ meals a bit more than necessary, it was better than starving.

It didn’t taste bad either, she noted, as she finished some potatoes and vegetables. It was a bit unnerving, however, to have Winky stand there while she ate. “Winky,” the house-elf looked up when she said her name, standing attentively to her. “What time is it?”

“Fifteen minutes past six, Mistress,” Winky replied quickly. “Winky knew Mistress must have been tired from the task yesterday, so Winky knew it was best to let Mistress sleep as long as needed.”

“And my ankle?”

“Winky wrapped it just as Master Barty told Winky to,” Winky said proudly. “Mistress’ ankle is broken, but rest assured, Winky will make sure it will be as good as new in no time!”

Well, that confirmed her suspicions, but it didn’t make her feel any better. Without magic, the bone would take at least six weeks to recover. That was well over a month, which would mean spending more time in this prison. Fleur bit back a sigh of frustration, hiding it in a long sip of black tea. As nice as Winky appeared, she had a gut feeling that if she tried to escape, Winky would stop her and most likely report it to Barty.

She didn’t even want to think about what would happen after that.

She wasn’t particularly hungry now. She had only finished half of the food given to her, but thoughts of her kidnapper had killed any sort of appetite she had. Winky watched as she set the tray aside, and with a snap of her bony fingers, it disappeared. Winky’s large eyes fixed upon her, she spoke again in her squeaky voice. “Would Mistress like to bathe? Winky will only be a moment to heat up the water!”

A bath did sound nice, Fleur couldn’t help but agree. It would give her a chance to cleanse her body of the phantom touches and allow her to fully see the damage from last night. “If you don’t mind,” she said carefully, remaining as polite as possible. “A bath sounds lovely.”

Winky beamed. “Winky doesn’t mind at all, Mistress. Winky will just be a moment to get it ready for Mistress.”

She headed towards a door a few feet away on the left side of the bed, and Fleur wondered why she hadn’t noticed it before. Winky disappeared behind it, and through the opened door, it revealed a stark white bathroom. Until Winky came back, she decided it would be wise to not move until she found something she could support herself on. Crutches, preferably.

“Winky,” she called for the house-elf once more. “Winky, where am I, exactly?”

Winky came back out of the bathroom, holding a large cream-colored towel in her small arms. The smile had vanished from her face, and she appeared to be rather guilty now. “Winky cannot tell Mistress that,” she replied softly. “Winky is sorry, Mistress, Master Barty says it’s in your best interest that you not know.”

“Winky,” she pressed on, ignoring the urge to shake the information out of the house-elf. “Winky, it’s in my best interest that I do know where I am. I ‘ave been kidnaped by your master!”

Winky winced as though even speaking ill about her master caused her pain. “Master Barty is a good boy, even though he can be naughty,” Winky shook her head, and a strange sort of nostalgic smile grew on her elven features. “Winky has cared for Master Barty since he was a baby, and Winky will continue to care for Master Barty until Winky is unable to. Winky has served the Crouch family for so long and Winky would never do ill against her family.”

The words were simplistic enough, but Fleur caught the warning in the undertone of the house-elf’s words. As much as Winky may not have liked the kidnapping, her loyalty to Barty and his family would prevent her from aiding her escape. House-elves were common in old wizarding British families, and in a few French ones. Yet her experiences with them had been few to none. Her family didn’t have one; no one in her village did, so she would have to slowly gain Winky’s trust.

However long that would take. From what it looked like, Winky’s entire ancestry had been loyal to this one Pureblood wizard family. Old ties were not always easy to break, and as she gazed down at her leg in its bandaging, she knew she would be in this for the long haul.

Noticing the crutch left near an old worn dresser, she placed it carefully under right arm. It was uncomfortable, but with some effort she managed to step into the bathroom. Unlike the room she had been sleeping in, this one was much less dusty. The furniture had an old look to it but seemed to be working in order. The bathtub, a clawfoot tub that spoke of long years, yet still remained remarkably pristine. Enchantments must have been placed on it, and as Winky had it filling up with water, it looked absolutely inviting.

The tiles were cold against her feet and looking down at them, she noticed how rough they looked. A few pink cuts were in jarring patterns against her skin, and the tenderness at the bottom of her right foot reminded her that she had cut it while in her attempt at escape. Looking down, she quickly turned her gaze away from it upon it. She couldn’t see over the bandage put over it, but she could imagine that it was an angry red.

While Winky was busy tending to the bath, she took advantage of using the full body mirror tucked in a corner. From where she’d been cut by a branch in the maze, a bandage had been placed over that. A few smaller cuts decorated her face, but nothing compared to the horror of the rest of her body.

All over her neck to her shoulders and reach down to her collar bone were bite shaped bruises of varying colors. Some an angry red while most were a violent purple. She slowly lifted the nightgown over her body, mindful of Winky’s presence, and observed the dark bite marked bruises over her breasts, stomach and hips.

She felt over each of them, and while most of them stung a little, the others registered no feeling. Numbly, Fleur let the material of the nightgown slip through her fingers and fall down her body, concealing the marks she no longer had any desire to see. Her body was ruined; marred by a man who’s lack of morality and slight instability made him a dangerous foe. To escape him, she would have to choose her moment carefully.

She glanced back at Winky, who was paying no mind to her. Even if she were able to gain the house-elf’s trust, there was no guarantee that it would work. If the opportunity arose, she would leave with or without her assistance.

“Winky?” she called for the house-elf suddenly, catching her interest as the servant is pouring soup into the tub. “Is this where the Crouch’s lived?”

If she couldn’t know the location of where she was, then she might as well know the purpose of this home. A veela she may be, but unresourceful she was not. Winky paused, mulling her words over a bit before deciding to answer. “No, Mistress,” she finally said, still in a bright tone. “This is the Crouch’s old vacation home. Winky would go with her Master here every spring through early summer until Master Crouch felt that coming here was conflicting with his work.”

She then thought of poor Mr. Crouch. She hadn’t known him well at all, but she still couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. Her father had been well acquainted with him, and for a while they had considered each other friends, until the trial of his son happened. Her father thought Mr. Crouch had been too harsh in putting him in Azkaban without much evidence. Fleur had only been four at the time, but she could recall their argument well. She had never seen her father so upset that he asked for the British wizard to leave the house.

Now Mr. Crouch was gone, and although his body was never recovered, Fleur was almost certain he was dead.

“Mistress? Winky has the bath ready for you!” Winky broke her out of her thoughts, the house-elf waiting by the side with a smile. “If Mistress will permit Winky, Winky will help Mistress make sure she does not get her bandages wet.”

Fleur forced a smile. “Thank you, Winky. I’d really appreciate that.”

Winky turned around and Fleur took that as a sign of respect for her to get undressed. She slipped the nightie past her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. Hesitantly and with great effort, she managed to lift one leg into the tub and lowered the rest of her body carefully into it. Her long hair concealed most of her body, as did the large foamy bubbles, but unlike with Barty she didn’t feel threatened this time. Winky was here to keep an eye on her and make sure she didn’t do anything impulsive. Small as she was, she knew for certain that Winky could do lasting damage on her if she felt the need to.

Besides, with her ankle as it was, she wouldn’t get far if she tried to run anyway.

She watched as the house-elf carefully and gently propped her bandaged leg up on the side of the tub. It was awkward having her leg there, but she paid little thought to it. There was a sponge lying nearby and she took it eagerly.

She first scrubbed away on her arms, with a furious pace that made her skin burn hot like fire. She scrubbed from her shoulders down to her forearms, avoiding the redness of her wrists as she attempted to remove each phantom memory of his touch. “ _Clean, clean, clean,_ ” she repeated over and over in her mind like a mantra, each harsh movement of the sponge removing the pollution on her body. Yet, it wasn’t enough.

She moved down her body, the skin where the sponge met tingling from being rubbed raw. She plunged the sponge downwards where her thighs met her hips. She closed her eyes, shutting off the world around her. The memories of last night were on repeat in her mind, and no matter how hard she tried to look away, they kept intruding in her thoughts. His eyes, the sound of his breathing and the way he smiled against her skin. The perverse image forever tattooed into soul.

She ground her teeth together so hard she caught the inside of her cheek. The sponge moved to her thigh, where she could still sense the lingering traces of his kisses on the inner part of the appendage. She must have bit her cheek a bit too hard. The bitter metallic taste of her own blood mixed in with her saliva, much as it did when he bit her down on her cut lip. She forced her eyes open, the blinding light of the bathroom making her squint.

The sponge had fallen from her hands, landing down in the soapy warm water with a light splashing sound. She looked down. Her hands were shaking. Why were her hands shaking? The world around began to spin as though she were on a playground ride, but she was unable to get off. One half of her brain was screaming at her to get a grip of herself, while the other just wanted to…to…what was it she wanted to do?

There was a pain against her chest, the same kind of pain she’d felt earlier, and she wondered for a moment if she was going to be sick. The spinning of the world had intensified, giving her the impression that she was on a non-Magiques’ carnival ride, like the ones her parents had taken her to when she was little. In the moment, it felt that she was on a carousel.

Something was wrong with her as she remained stuck on the carousel. No matter how far she reached, she couldn’t grasp whatever she was reaching towards. She looked back down towards the little sponge. Yes, that was it. How could she not see it? No matter how hard she scrubbed, no matter how much soap she used, she could not get _clean_. A part of his dark, tainted magic had wormed its way into her body. No matter how hard she tried to rid herself of it, it latched on even tighter.

“Mistress!”

As though she’d been slapped across the face, Winky’s eyes suddenly met hers in an expression of pure panic and worry. Fleur blinked several times as the pain in her chest deflated, slowly ebbing away as though it had never been. Winky looked as though she were ready to cry, for her eyes were watery. “Mistress, you have Winky so worried! Winky was asking Mistress a question, but Mistress wouldn’t respond! Winky thought Mistress was sick or possessed!”

“It’s nothing,” she said so automatically it felt like something really was controlling her. “I’m okay, Winky. I am sorry to ‘ave worried you.”

Most of the bubbles had disappeared by now, leaving water that was slightly gray now due to steam and the grime from her body. Her hair plastered to her body, she pushed it out of her face to better see the house-elf. Winky still stared at her with worry, and perhaps a bit of fear. Fleur forced herself to smile. “I am okay, I got lost in thought.”

Winky still didn’t look like she believed her, but she said nothing and continued to make sure that her leg didn’t fall into the tub. With a small sigh, Fleur maneuvered her body carefully so that her head was submerged underwater. Long enough to rid her head of the lingering soap, but also to escape that gaze. Swimming just underneath the panic was pity, and Fleur did not want anyone pitying her.

She didn’t stay long underwater; she didn’t want Winky to freak out and then go off and tell Barty that she had tried to drown herself. She didn’t want to see what Barty would do. Something unpleasant, she imagined, and it would be directed at her. She was already damaged enough. Anything further would mean more time in this dreary place.

“I think I’m ready to get out now,” she said abruptly, catching Winky’s attention once more. “Please.”

Getting out of the tub was a bit trickier than she anticipated, but with Winky’s assistance, she managed to get out without causing anymore injury to herself. Keeping weight off her ankle, she wrapped the towel Winky handed her around her body, grateful for the warmth the fluffy cotton material brought her.

Sunlight poured into the bedroom, dust particles catching in the late afternoon’s rays. She nearly sighed in relief when she noticed that her clothes from yesterday had been laid on the dresser in a neatly folded pile. Where Winky disappeared to, she didn’t know, and at the moment she didn’t really care. All she cared about right now was the familiar feel of her own clothes and the relaxing scent of the lavender soap that had cleaned them.

She was almost fully dressed when the house-elf returned suddenly. She had just slipped her Beauxbatons’ shirt over her head when she saw the house-elf. Something was held between her thin long fingers; a hairbrush she quickly realized. Made from pure silver from the looks of it and using only the finest of bristles to run through one’s hair.

Winky hopped up on the bed next to her, gazing at her almost shyly. “Would Mistress permit Winky to brush her hair?” she asked timidly. “Mistress’ hair is so beautiful, just as lovely as Mistress Crouch’s hair.”

“You may,” she answered back, and Fleur couldn’t help the tentative smile from growing. The house-elf’s shyness reminded her of Gabrielle when she was younger. She’d been so shy as a child, but after entering school, had become much more outspoken and bolder.

The smile fell, though she was sure Winky didn’t catch it, for the soft bristles began to run through her hair. The same heaviness she’d felt earlier returned, weighing down on her with such immeasurable force. With every stroke against her hair, she wondered how long it would be until she saw Gabrielle, and their parents, again. Months, maybe even longer, and she bit her lip again to keep herself grounded back to reality.

 _“No more tears,_ ” she reprimanded herself severely. _“You are no damsel in distress._ ”

So, she sat there and let the house-elf brush drying hair in silence, watching as the dust particles caught in the air. She eyed her surroundings, and slowly, an idea dimmed in the darkness of her mind. “Winky,” she began. “Can you tell me more about this place?”

“Of course,” came Winky’s swift reply. “Winky will tell Mistress anything she would like to know.”

“Tell me about why the Crouch’s came ‘ere. Why this ‘ouse in particular?”

“Oh, Mistress, it is a very romantic story,” Winky giggled like a school girl, though it sounded strange coming from her squeaky voice. “Master Crouch bought it for Mistress Crouch when they married all these years ago. Mistress Crouch often didn’t feel well, so Master Crouch would bring Mistress Crouch here. They would stay here for months on end just enjoying each other’s company. Master Barty was born here as well.”

So, the place had to be somewhere in England, she deduced rather quickly. “The woods offer a lot of privacy,” she mentioned, and even though her interactions with Mr. Crouch had been limited at best, it didn’t surprise her that he would be a very reserved individual. “I imagine it must be very lovely in the autumn time.”

“Mistress Crouch did love autumn,” Winky reminisced, and now she sounded a bit sad thinking of the former matriarch. “Winky remembers when Mistress Crouch was feeling up to it, she would go for a stroll with Master Crouch or Master Barty. They especially loved going out down by the lake during the summer.”

A lake? Fleur didn’t know very much about English geography, but at least one partial piece of information about this place could be useful. How many lakes there were in England, she didn’t know, but it was a start.

“Winky would be happy to show you photos of her masters if Mistress would like?”

The random question broke her musings. She hadn’t even realized Winky had moved to stand before her, hair brush now lying on the nightstand next to the bed. Her dark eyes hopeful, and Fleur didn’t have it in her to deny the house-elf. “If you would like to,” she said carefully, remaining polite even though she wanted nothing to do with a certain member of the family.

Practically bouncing on her feet, Winky disapparated away, and Fleur could finally alone with her thoughts. Beneath the façade of seeming outwardly fine, she felt restless. Her right foot tapped anxiously against the wooden floor, and every few seconds, she eyed the door. How much longer would she have until she had to face _him_ again?

How much peace would she have until she had to offer comfort for the man she hated?

Winky returned with that same popping sound she always made, and this time, she held something tightly in her arms. A worn, brown leather-bound book with gold trimming along the edges. Carefully, she placed it in Fleur’s lap with a fond smile. “Winky has brought Mistress photos of the Crouch family,” she said proudly. “Winky hopes that Mistress will like it. Winky must continue chores for Master Barty, but if Mistress should need anything else, all Mistress has to do is call for Winky.”

Fleur nodded. “Thank you, Winky.”

Once more, after Winky’s departure, she was alone. The book felt heavy in her lap, full of information that sat at her fingertips, ready to be looked at. Gracefully, she opened the cover to see the first photo on the page. The moving images of a man and a woman on their wedding day. The man was smiling broadly, holding a very delicate and wispy looking woman in his arms as they danced to a song long since forgotten.

She recognized Mr. Crouch right away, momentarily taken aback by how young he appeared. There was something else she noticed right away too. In the photo, Mr. Crouch did not look as though he carried the burdens he had in his later years. The somber rigid man she had known through the tournament shared almost no resemblance to the blissfully happy man in the photo.

The woman had to be Barty’s mother. The dancing bride wrapped her arms around her groom’s neck with the brightest happiest smile she’d ever seen. While not the most beautiful woman in the world, she did have a very pretty smile and kind eyes. If Barty’s parents were so happy here, she wondered where he went wrong.

The more she flipped through, the clearer it became. Several pages later, there was a photo of the glowing just as happily as they had on their wedding day. They were dressed in proper wizard robes for the occasion, and Mrs. Crouch beamed proudly as she held what appeared to be a four-month-old baby. The baby smiled up at her, and her heart slammed against her chest violently. How in Merlin’s name could a baby with such a sweet smile grow into a horrible monster?

Logically, she knew that life experiences shaped the person one grew up into. It became abundantly clear through the many photos that the root of the problem lay with the father, who aside from the yearly family photo, appeared in very few of the rest of the photos. Birthday parties, Christmases, and other occasions that either showed Barty or him and his mother. Rarely ever was Mr. Crouch in these photos.

Mrs. Crouch, as Winky mentioned to her, was a very frail woman. From the photos of her, she tended to wear her fine blonde hair either in an updo, or letting it sit past her shoulders. Almost always, Fleur noticed that she sat in a wheelchair, or had one around just in case she needed it. Translucently pale, she had dark circles under her eyes and by the size of her slim wrists, Fleur couldn’t help but have the sneaking suspicion that the woman had been at least a little underweight.

She stopped on the page that held a photo of an eleven-year-old boy in his Hogwarts’ robes, brandishing in his wand as though he were about to use it for the first time. It was also one of the few photos where Mr. Crouch was there, an arm wrapped around his son and beaming with pride. The photo next to it was initialed _Barty Jr.’s second year at Hogwarts, August 30, 1974_ , and though the photos were black and white, she could see the clear mark of the Slytherin house standing out and the cunning smile on the boy’s face.

The last photo taken in the thick book, was in 1981. It must have been before the downfall of He Who Must Not Be Named, and still, there was no denying that something was off with the family. Barty stood next to his mother, one arm resting on the back of her wheelchair and looking just as subdued as his parents. A clear sign of a home that had broken long ago.

“I can’t believe Winky kept that old thing. Then again, she’s always been ridiculously sentimental.”

The photo album slipped from her fingers and onto the floor with a loud thud. Through the roaring of the blood in her ears, she still heard those precisely measured footsteps step towards her. Barty’s hands reached down to pick up the leather-bound book. “I’m sure my father told her to toss out when he threw me in Azkaban,” he sneered. “But she either disobeyed that order or someone told her otherwise.”

She had an idea of who that other person might have been, but Fleur said nothing. She didn’t even look at him.

He set the book down on the nearest surface, and at once, she felt his presence over her. His nimble fingers reached out to her face, tracing over the bandage in a surprising moment of tenderness. “Look at me,” he requested softly. “Come on, love, don’t be shy. Look at me.”

She refused, instead making it perfectly clear that she had no desire to comply with his demands. She pulled her face away from his sharply, letting the strands of her still drying hair fall through his fingers. “Look at me,” he commanded more firmly, and with a quick sharp tug on her hair, her gaze met his. He grinned. “Now, I know you’re upset with me-”

She cut him off with a snort.

He frowned. “Now that was rude,” he commented, but if he was truly annoyed, he didn’t express it. “Come now, it wasn’t so bad, was it?”

There were a million things she wanted to say to him, none of which she realized, he would probably understand. Her mouth went dry as though she had forgotten how to speak, so bewildered by such a ridiculous question. Of course, it was bad! He wasn’t the one tied up and having his requests ignored!

From the way she was staring at him, he chuckled. “Alright, so I may have gotten a bit carried away,” he confessed, coming to sit on the bed next to her. At her attempt to scoot away from him, he wrapped his arm around her possessively, pulling her further to him. He leaned down to kiss the top of her head. “Tying you up was a bit much, if I’m being honest, but it was either that or the Imperious curse. But I really don’t want to have to use that and I’m sure you don’t either.”

It was both a threat and a warning. If she refused him, he could be driven to the point of using it and would have no problem doing so. Her opinion in the matter was irrelevant. Still looking him in the eye, she said to him: “Non, I do not.”

The answer to his message was obviously well received by the way his eyes lit up like a child who’d held their wand for the first time. Pressed so closely to his thigh, it didn’t take him much effort to pull her into his lap. Facing away from him, he couldn’t see the way her face turned a furious shade of pink at the inappropriate proximity. His hands settled on her hips, steadying her as he brushed her hair back to kiss at her neck.

“You smell so good,” he murmured into her skin, nose tickling the skin there and sending thousands of shivers across her skin. His tongue darted out, poking wetly at the mark he’d left on her last night in a disturbing way of displaying his claim. “So sweet, like a flower. It’s intoxicating.”

She tensed in his embrace and if he noticed, he paid no mind. “’ow original,” she couldn’t stop her mouth from moving, her tone scornful in contrast to his deceptively tender words. “Comparing me to my namesake.”

She needed to be careful with how she spoke to him. Though her nature happened to be unapologetically blunt, it would not serve her well to have him snap and potentially harm her. However, from the way his body move as he laughed, there was no need to worry. This time.

His hands carded through her silky tresses. “I imagine you have heard that before,” his kisses became firmer against her skin, and it felt like a hungry vampire attacking her. “And in any case, you’re not as innocent as those flowers. We took care of that last night, didn’t we?”

Her stomach lurched forward, but despite the nausea at the reminder of last night, she forced herself to repress it. Glancing down, she found that her hands were strangely shaking once more, and that could only be due to his own wandering over her thighs. In a sense, he wasn’t wrong. No matter if and when she managed to escape from this place, he would always be her first. No amount of time would be able to change that.

“Yes, you did.” She finally responded, albeit bitterly.

He didn’t seem to care how disgusted she was by the act he had committed, and she wasn’t sure if that disturbed her more than the act itself. As she sat there on his lap like a motionless doll, his lips moving down to kiss at her shoulder, she found the need to distance herself from him as much as possible. “Why me?” she asked him, abruptly forcing his attention from her body. “There must be another reason as to why you ‘ave taken me.”

“I already told you-”

“Non,” she cut him brusquely, and he must not have liked that, for his hands tightened on her hips. They dug into the bruises and she couldn’t stop from wincing. “If you wanted me for my looks and some sick desire to claim me, then shouldn’t you ‘ave tossed me aside by now? I do not peg you as a shallow man, so there must be something else!”

Or perhaps, that was it. He lusted after her for a whole year, deciding she was his to claim whether she wanted him or not. It was superficial reason at best, sounding like something from a man who had no control over his emotions. Barty, did not strike her as one of these men.

The grip on her hips did lessen and with a surprising amount of gentleness, he removed her from his lap to then stand over her. Legs dangling precariously over the ledge, she watched attentively as he reached for the book left on the nightstand nearby. Dexterous fingers leafed through the pages, searching for something as they shared complete silence.

He placed the book in her lap, landing on a page she had briefly seen as she had been leafing through the pages earlier. His mother, Mrs. Crouch, sitting in her wheel chair underneath one of the large trees outside reading. “My mother,” Barty said in a tone so soft, it sounded strange coming from him. She looked into his eyes, her stomach rolling at the tender emotions burning in those orbs. “My mother’s health declined badly after I was locked up. Her dying wish was that she would take my place in Azkaban so that I would be able to live a free and happy life. She couldn’t fathom the life of her only son being cut so short.”

Fleur stared down at the small witch, and wondered if Mrs. Crouch could see her son now, would she be proud? Or would she think that her efforts had been a waste? He gripped her face firmly, forcing her gaze to lock with his. “For thirteen years I remained locked in my own home, patiently waiting for a chance to escape. My only desire was to serve my lord and find him; revive my master who acted more like a father than my own. That flame burned steadily in me, and despite my father’s use of the imperious curse, he could not subdue it.”

“When my master cut me loose from my binds, I felt free. And I eagerly took up my chance to serve him as any loyal servant of Lord Voldemort should,” he sneered those words, and his thumb then began to rub against her cheek softly. “But then, who should waltz into my life but you? When I first saw you, I thought I had stepped into a dream. You tormented me with your beauty; your smile and brightness.”

There was that same tightness beginning to burn in her chest, threatening to set her lungs aflame. He smiled upon her, leaning closer. “Well, you already know all that. And perhaps at first, it was only lust. But now,” he was going to kiss her, any moment now, and she braced herself for the unwelcome pressure of his lips. “I fully understand what my mother wanted for me. True, serving my lord does give me purpose in life but you, my dear, give me something else entirely.”

She flinched away from him subconsciously. “And what is that?” she asked numbly.

“You are, as I said last night, my light that I have drug into the darkness of my world,” his lips brushed against hers. “Whatever was frozen within me, you melted it away like Spring. You lit a fire in me that lust alone could not explain. Your voice, your presence, even your magic itself draws me in. Something I know your veela nature cannot fully attain for.”

He severed the distance between them with a kiss, hand drawing to the back of her neck to support her as he laid her down against the bed. Unlike the kisses he gave her last night, this was not similar to any of those. It was slow and soft, in ways that his words would never be. His hand rested below her ear, his thumb caressing her cheek as their breaths mingled. His free hand dipped behind her back, running his fingers down her spine, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them and she could feel the beating of his heart against her chest.

There was an intimacy behind it that froze her to the core. A revelation that had her mind racing thousands of miles away, so fast she could not keep up to them except the one: he had meant every word he said.

He continued kissing her in the slow, intimate manner, making her dizzy with a heavy mixture of horror, numbness, and a rise of nausea. She barely even registered the ministrations of his hands as they played with the zipper of her jeans.

Blasted monster, he was already in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love inspecting Barty (despite wanting to yeet him across a room most of the time), so we'll be getting more of his perspective soon. The other Death Eaters will be showing up soon; depending on whose point of view we're reading from. Fleur won't be meeting any of them quite yet, so be patient :) If you guys want to share headcanons and stuff, then feel free to share them with me. 
> 
> I've also used the word non-magiques since that is what French wizards/witches call muggles. According to CoG anyway. I didn't find the different terms for muggles that annoying as some people seemed to have. 
> 
> i also made a playlist for BartyxFleur on Spotify. It's under the same name as the fic, so if you're interested in me making it public, let me know. Until then, take care, be safe and well, and I'll see you guys next week. I believe in the next chapter it'll be in Harry's view, and I adore Harry. Bye!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We get two separate p.o.v's in this chapter. Hopefully it won't be distracting or anything; I won't do it for every chapter. I enjoy writing the Golden Trio; they're so much fun to write and I think we need to see how the world outside Fleur is going. We won't be seeing the trio for a while after this (they are on vacation after all), so I'll let the events of the OoTP play out
> 
> Anyways, I'm sorry about being behind schedule, but do remember I have a life outside ao3. I'll try to have the next chapter out by next week, but if there's a delay, I'll let you know. Thanks for reading! I hope you are all having a nice day and I'll see you next time :)

Standing in the crowded entry hallway waiting for the carriages that would take them to the Hogsmeade station, Harry stood somberly with the rest of the buzzing fourth years with sunshine streaming in through the windows. The thoughts of the beautiful summer day brought no comfort to him. A weight had settled on his shoulders, and no matter how beautiful the day was, it couldn’t remove the reminder that something had changed permanently.

Coming down from the stone steps, a small figure caught his attention. His gaze settled upon Gabrielle Delacour slowly descending, holding the hand of another Beauxbatons student. For once, the Beauxbatons students were not wearing their traditional robes of satin blue, instead opting for robes of the deepest black. Many of the students had red rimmed eyes, but none looked as devastated as small girl walking slowly towards him.

“‘Arry,” Gabrielle pulled the hand of the girl she was clinging onto, making them both hurry towards him. Her deep blue eyes were swollen red from crying, but she still offered him a wobbly smile. “’Arry, I am glad to see you. I wanted to say farewell before you left.”

“Gabrielle,” the older girl, one Harry had seen hanging around Fleur all year, tugged gently at the girl’s hand. “We will be leaving soon, so you must ‘urry.”

Gabrielle glanced up towards the older girl with her lips pressed together thinly. “I’ll be only a moment, Sabine,” she said and turned her attention back to Harry. “I ‘ope we meet again, ‘Arry. Fleur…Fleur would ‘ave wanted me to tell you that she considered you a very dear friend.”

Harry’s cheeks turned pink, and next to him, Ron let out a strangled sort of noise. Harry took Gabrielle’s now outstretched hand and shook it. “I hope so too,” he responded genuinely. “I am glad to have met both you and Fleur.”

He recalled Dumbledore’s words on the value of the friendships they’d made over the year, and now more than ever, the words rang true. Gabrielle smiled sadly, leaning up on her tiptoes to give him a brief kiss on the cheek before the older girl pulled her away. He, Ron and Hermione stood there amongst the crowd silently, watching as students hugged each other goodbye, promising to write to one another during the summer and other such kind words.

Harry, despite the sorrow over Cedric and the shock over Fleur, couldn’t shake off the feeling that he had missed something entirely important.

The rush of landscape on the train flew by as the steady chugging of the train hummed in his ears. Still reeling over the third round of exploding snaps, the twins stepped over the unconscious bodies of Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle in search of the loo, leaving Harry, Ron and Hermione by themselves alone once more.

Ignoring Ron’s muttering over how he’d win the next round, Hermione broke the silence. “It still doesn’t make sense,” she said mysteriously, Crookshanks hopping into her lap. “None of it does. And you know Dumbledore isn’t going to let it go.”

“What?” Ron asked irritably, not appreciating her vagueness at all. Harry, on the other hand, had the sinking suspicion he knew what she was referring to.

Hermione ignored Ron’s annoyance. “Fleur’s death,” she said firmly, threading her hands carefully through her cat’s fur. “Dumbledore doesn’t believe for one moment that an Erkling ate her and neither do I. While you were in the hospital, I went to the library to find some more information on Erklings and there is evidence to suggest that something isn’t quite right.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, recalling their lessons in the previous months.

“Think about it,” Hermione prompted both of them, her brown eyes narrowed. “Erklings primarily eat children. The last known attack from an Erkling was back in 1961 when Bruno Schmidt defeated one. And he was six years old. Fleur is seventeen, so it doesn’t seem likely that an Erkling would want to eat her.”

“Maybe it was hungry?” Ron offered, popping a Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Bean into his mouth. “I mean, who knows when it was fed last?”

“Possibly,” but Hermione didn’t sound convinced. “But Fleur should have been able to defeat it; there are several methods of defeating one, and Bruno defeated one by using his father’s cauldron. They’re only 91 centimeters tall, and there was just one supposedly in the maze.”

“They’ll still eat adults, if they’re able to catch one,” Harry said curiously. “Professor Moody-I mean-”

But he couldn’t finish that sentence, for all three of them tensed uncomfortably up at the name. News that a Death Eater had been teaching the students of Hogwarts all year and escaped had rippled across the school. Barty Crouch Jr. had managed, while bound, to defeat Professor McGonagall and mysteriously disappeared without a trace.

“Should we call him Professor Crouch then?” Ron’s attempt to break the ice was met with a glare from Hermione. He shuddered. “To think, a Death Eater was probably the best Defense Against the Dark Art’s professor we’ve ever had.”

“Professor Lupin was the best we’ve had,” Hermione said stiffly, but then she paused. “But Crouch did do a good job at teaching us. Even if he was lying about his identity the whole time.”

“He managed to fool everyone,” Harry grumbled angrily. “And I can’t believe we all fell for it.”

“Well none of us have met the real Mad-eye Moody till now,” Ron reasoned, and Hermione nodded along with him. “So how can it be our fault? As you told us, he studied the guy for a month. I would have gotten so bored.”

“He’s not someone to take lightly,” Hermione furrowed her brows, now troubled. “But how he managed to escape mystifies me.”

“Maybe he apparated away?”

Hermione raised her eyes to the ceiling Ron’s suggestion. “How many times do I have to tell you that we can’t apparate on Hogwarts’ grounds!” she sighed irritably, Ron rolling his eyes. “And anyways, I imagine he must have had some help. Someone on the outside who would be capable of aiding him.”

“He might have tricked someone,” Harry mused. “He fooled so many. Me, Dumbledore, Dobby…”

It was the mention of Dobby’s name that had Hermione’s eyes widen to the size of dinner plates. She suddenly gripped Crookshanks tight, earning a meow from the cat that sounded more like a grunt of displeasure. “Of course,” she uttered out loud. “Oh, how did I not see it before?”

“What?”

Hermione pressed her lips together. “While you were in the hospital, I went to go see Dobby. You know, to do some more work on S.P.E.W before the term ended. Oh Harry, I didn’t want to worry you, so I wasn’t going to bring it up at first, but Dobby is in distress. Sometime before the third task, he went to go watch you enter the maze and when he returned to the kitchens, Winky was gone.”

“Winky left?” Ron asked, now fully interested in what Hermione was saying. “But a house-elf wouldn’t just abandon their job! Weren’t they doing the dishes from the feast when the task started?”

From the corner of her eye, Hermione gave him a dark look. “He said Winky had been acting odd in the days before the task. She started drinking less, and the night before, she didn’t touch a single drop of Butterbeer. Dobby said he thought that maybe she was beginning to accept her situation and that she didn’t need to get drunk anymore. He said it seemed like she was anticipating something.”

“You think she helped Crouch escape?” Harry asked, and the more he thought about it, the more plausible it seemed. “But why would he even let her know that he was in the castle? Why let it slip that he wasn’t the real Moody to her?”

“He must have been planning something,” Hermione said carefully. “From what you’ve said, he had been too reckless. And by being reckless, he forgot to take his potion hourly. I have no doubt in mind that he had something to do with Fleur.”

“What would he want with her?” Ron asked with his eyebrows raised. “I mean, I understand why he made sure that Harry would be the one to get the cup, but why go to all that trouble of making it look like an Erkling killed her?”

“It’s also mysterious that there was no blood, or anything left at where the Erkling supposedly ate her. Other than her wand,” Hermione added. “It all looks rather convenient. Make it look like she died so no one would assume that he had something to do with her disappearance.”

“I still don’t see what he would want with her,” Ron muttered. “Going to all that length and trouble just to make sure that no one would suspect him.”

Harry agreed with Ron, but there was still something nagging at him, saying that there was something obvious he wasn’t getting. What would a grown wizard, a devoted Death Eater of Lord Voldemort, want with a seventeen-year-old witch? He thought the answer should have been obvious, but he still found himself rather mystified.

“Her magic, maybe?” he put out tentatively, waiting to see how Ron and Hermione responded. “I think we read in Lupin’s class that Veelas have a magic of their own. Something similar to house-elves; they don’t need wands to use it?”

Hermione frowned. “But Fleur isn’t a full veela; she’s only a quarter,” but she did look doubtful of that. “Maybe that’s what he wanted, but I should think that he would want it from the original source.”

It still didn’t make sense to Harry, and from the look Ron was giving him, he didn’t understand it either. He thought of Fleur, with her long silvery hair and her beautiful smile. How her very presence could bright up even the darkest of rooms. Even though his initial impression of her hadn’t been the nicest, she had proven herself to be very courageous and kind. Their comradery as fellow Triwizard contestants had bound them together, yet despite that, he didn’t know her all that well.

Suddenly, the thing he had been missing hit him so hard he felt as though he been hit in the head with a bludger. There was something he had overlooked; something that he had seen but didn’t want to acknowledge. It happened the following Monday after the Second Task. He and the other fourth year Gryffindor students were just exiting their Defense Against the Dark Art’s class when she and her own classmates went walking by. She greeted him in French, smiling so brightly he flushed almost as deep as Ron, whose face as turned as bright as his hair. He had turned his head to say something towards his friend when he saw something in Professor Moody, no, Crouch’s eye.

For whatever reason, the man’s gaze was fixated on something. Harry followed its track, quickly landing on Fleur’s retreating form. “Moody’s” one eye followed her as she laughed at a friend’s joke, her hair shimmering as she tossed her head. He didn’t know, at the time what to place the emotion as, only that it was one he wasn’t quite familiar with. Something he had never at all seen before. The only thing close he could describe it was when he saw the Veelas dancing in the Quidditch World Cup.

Whatever it was in “Moody’s” eye, in disappeared quickly and he staggered back into the classroom. Shaking his head, Harry had buried it away in hopes he would forget it. Now, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be thankful that he remembered it.

“He wanted her,” he said quietly, Ron and Hermione leaning in closer to hear him. He swallowed hard. “He wanted her, so he took her. He developed an entire scheme just to make sure no one would be looking for her.”

From the paleness on both Ron and Hermione’s faces, Harry knew they understood what he meant. Hermione even had a tinge of green on hers. “Dumbledore tried to convince the ministry that something wasn’t right,” Hermione said, voice trembling slightly. “But Fudge brushed him off; he’s in complete denial about the whole thing.”

“The ministry probably won’t even look for her,” Ron’s pale face had an angry pink tinge along his freckled cheeks, and his eyes burned darkly. “Dad reckons Fudge will do whatever he can to make Dumbledore look like a git.”

Harry thought back to the man he once respected and felt a prick of anger bubble in his veins. Not just for being called a liar, but for covering up how Cedric died and the tragic untimely “death” of Fleur. “Of course, they won’t,” Harry grumbled, no longer in the mood to eat anymore of the sweets from the trolley. “They’ll stick to their story of Cedric accidentally dying. And Fleur…” But Harry found he couldn’t finish that sentence. Whatever was happening to her was too horrible to even say out loud. 

Hermione shuddered. “Dumbledore won’t let her disappearance go ignored,” she said firmly, completely sure of their headmaster. “I imagine he has people out looking for her right now. Professor Moody left as soon as he could. Dumbledore’s planning something, I am sure of it.”

Whatever it was that Dumbledore was planning, Harry never got a chance to ask. Fred and George returned to their compartment and resumed their game of exploding snaps. The heavy mood went unnoticed by the twins and after a few minutes, it dispersed with shrieks and laughter.

It wasn’t until much later, when he sat at the Dursley’s kitchen table did the dark mood resume its cover over him. He had left the train station with Hagrid’s words echoing in his mind, but once in the car, the bleak thoughts over recent events returned. He poked at Aunt Petunia’s overdone cottage pie morosely, not bringing himself to take even a single bite.

As usual, no one at the table paid any attention to him. Other than Uncle Vernon’s off-handed comment about how much money it took to drive Harry back to the house, but Harry ignored the comment. His uncle’s concerns were miniscule when it came to the deep-rooted worry that grew in Harry’s chest. The look of horror that crossed Cedric’s face before he died; the good-natured smile Fleur gave him before he ventured into the maze.

Hermione was right, everything was going to change. Outside, the once summery day had changed drastically. What had once been clear blue skies darkened with thick heavy storm clouds. Lightening flashed in the distance, followed by the steady rumble of thunder.

Another storm, Harry noted somberly, had already begun to brew.

~

Despite being very late at night on the last day of June, Barty found that no body paid him a single mind as he stalked down the streets of Salisbury, his hood covering his head against the droplets of rain that fell from the darkened skies. While he was quite sure that there were no Aurors in this area, his previous recklessness had proven that one could never be too careful.

He enjoyed his freedom regardless of having to keep a low profile. He looked up, not minding the rain that landed wetly against his face. While the muggles around him complained of the unexpected rain, he found that it wasn’t that bad. It was no worse, he remembered, than when his father half dragged, half carried his weakened body out of Azkaban. He could still recall the memory as though it were yesterday. The prison, cold and dark as usual, and the rain mixing in with the foamy water of the sea made it chillier than usual.

Yet the moment he stepped out of the place and was placed in the boat to return to the mainland, he felt a sudden new awareness that he had not felt in a year. The oppressive weight had been lifted and he, wearing the guise of his mother, stared up at the stormy skies a reborn free man. The rain covered the tears as they slipped down his cheeks, unnoticed by his father, whose dark eyes remained as stony as the prison he had just escaped from.

Barty resumed his stride, ignoring any onlookers who gave him strange looks. He heard one older man mutter to himself as he spoke in hushed tones to his wife, “That man looks like he’s on drugs; young people these days.” The wife wholeheartedly agreed with him, patting his arm as they spared him another look.

If he were looking to attract attention to himself, he would have killed them on the spot. However, that would make the Aurors come and sniff around, making it more likely he would be caught. Alastor Moody, no doubt, had a score to settle and Barty was not too keen on fighting him. Not without some back up, anyway. He took pride in his skills, but it took him plus Wormtail to take the older man down.

His thoughts turned to the girl he had stolen away back at his current hideout. The pretty vain little creature had been nothing but cold to him so far, he mused with a smirk. Her look of absolute shock when he told her his true feelings had clearly left an impression, and when he took comfort from her a second time, she did not fight him at all.

He had taken things much slower, their second time. He did not bite her harshly or bruise any part of her. Instead, he focused his attention on her, exploring her body with a tenderness she more than likely believed he wasn’t capable of having. She thought him a monster, but would a monster let their princesses come several times before they entered them?

She had been crying a lot, though, and the sight of her red rimmed eyes brought a frown to his features. It wasn’t fun having a princess who was going to do nothing but cry. He could still hear her cries for her mother echoing around in his mind, eerily similar to those first few days in Azkaban when he cried for his. Frowning deeper, he shoved those thoughts aside. Just like him, she would eventually resign to her fate. However long it took, just like when he was working carefully to ensure the return of the Dark Lord, he was in for the long haul.

“It’s a bit dangerous for you to be out, isn’t it?” a clear, but cold voice came from behind him. “I would think you would be back with the half-breed you so carelessly took from the tournament.”

Upon hearing the voice, the need to reach for his wand disappeared. As he turned, he came face to face with a stern faced Narcissa Malfoy, keeping her pale blonde hair dry from the rain with a deep green umbrella. Her pale face contrasted by her crimson red lipstick and her robes of emerald green. She had always been beautiful, he noted absently, though the years were beginning to take its toll on her.

“Narcissa,” he acknowledged her blankly. “If I didn’t know any better, I would say you’ve been following me.”

Narcissa raised her eyes at the accusation, lips pursing in disapproval. “I have much more important things to do than follow _you_ , of all people, around,” her tone was haughty, and he felt tempted to roll his eyes. She continued on. “I happened to run into you on this particularly dismal evening. As I said, it isn’t wise for a man such as yourself to be wandering about.”

“I didn’t know you cared,” he grinned as she gave a slight expression of indignation. “If it troubles you so much, Narcissa, please know that I am more than aware of my position right now. My little princess is tucked away securely, so don’t worry yourself too much.”

“I care little with what you do with the veela girl,” Narcissa ignored his amusement, and if she felt uncomfortable speaking with him, she did not show it. Unlike her older sister, Narcissa had never failed in remaining her composure. “I only wish to know if by keeping her, you’ve endangered not only yourself, but everyone else involved.”

Ah, so that’s why she was here speaking to him. Barty inclined his head curiously, watching as her eyes sharpened like steel. Of course, she had followed him, he observed quickly. She was just too arrogant in admitting in other than in a roundabout way. He wouldn’t expect anything less from a Malfoy.

“It might be in your best interest to mind yourself, Narcissa,” he leered, and her pursed lips twitched at the threat. “Your precious family is of little consequence to me. And your husband isn’t in our Lord’s highest regards right now, is he?”

Unlike her husband, Narcissa didn’t growl or threaten him. She stared coolly at him, analyzing the best way to respond to his statement without coming across as angry or threatened. “I would advise you to be careful,” she said finally, her voice as cold as the rain hitting his face. “Lest you fall back into the Dementor’s care. The Dark Lord would not be so keen on taking you back then, would he?”

The smile on his face fell, and he saw something burn in her eyes that he immediately felt wary of. More people walked by them in the street, and to those walking by, he and Narcissa must have looked like old acquaintances catching up. The would not notice the way his right hand inched towards his wand, or the way she gazed at him coldly, ready to fight if need be.

“Threatening me now, Cissy?” he sneered, using the old nickname he had heard Bellatrix use before. “It’s not like you to get involved in Death Eater business. I recall you always avoiding it when you could.”

Now that the Dark Lord had decided to use the manor as his base of operation, there was no way Narcissa could stay uninvolved in their business. Behind the façade of indifference, he knew her much better than that. “Times have changed,” she said lowly, lowering her eyes. “I will not deny the Dark Lord use of my home when he needs it, nor will I stop my husband from following his orders.”

There was something lingering there, something clearly bothering her. “What is it?” he asked interestedly. “I don’t have you that worried, do I, dear cousin?”

She arched an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “We are only third cousins,” she said scornfully, but the harsh gleam in her eyes vanished. “Not that it matters, anyway, I am not worried for you.”

“How touching.”

“I am worried _about_ you,” Narcissa stared at him frostily. “Your family’s old vacation home is not that far from ours. How long will it take for the Ministry to come poking around? If they find you, they’ll be inquiring my family next.”

Ah, there it was. Her true reason for being so hostile towards him. It was like her, he noted, to put her family’s needs above all else. Not that it surprised him one bit; even when her precious Draco was born, she refused any and all Death Eater activity near her home. Bellatrix and Rodolphus had grumbled about it, but in the end, complied with her wishes.

“I would think you’d want your son to follow in his father’s footsteps,” he didn’t stop the smirk from forming at the sight of dismay that momentarily crossed her features. “He’s fifteen now; practically grown up to make his own decisions.”

If possible, Narcissa’s face went even paler. “He’s too young,” she stated firmly, betraying nothing of how she truly felt. “Too young to be making such decisions.”

He scoffed, and she ignored him. “I was only a few years older than him when I joined,” he argued. “Your son, irritating as he is, is not an infant.”

“No, but last time I checked he is my son, not yours,” she said simply, and in a moment, takes a few more steps until she stood directly in front of him. Though he was much taller than her, he wouldn’t deny that in that moment, he felt wary. “And I will warn you only of this once, Barty. If you do anything that alerts the Ministry of your activity, and my family comes under investigation, there will be no hesitation from me.”

Despite the blank expression on her face, he’d be a fool to not notice the burning gleam of blue fire in her eyes. Whatever she meant by “not hesitate”, would not be good for him. A promise that only a mother would make to ensure the survival of her family. He’d seen it before; a time he cared not to think about, and he nodded stiffly.

As much as he loathed cowardly Lucius, he would not go against Narcissa. “Your family will be safe,” he promised her, even if he didn’t really care what happened to her husband or son. “Besides, the Ministry wouldn’t go after the Malfoy family; you’re in too high of standing. If they had suspicions of my whereabouts, I would be long gone by now.”

“Be that as it may,” Narcissa continued testily. “It would do you well to be more careful. Lucius has informed me that Alastor Moody is on the warpath.”

“I’m sure,” he grinned manically. “I bet the old codger is looking for a rematch.”

“Or to put you back in Azkaban,” Narcissa offered promptly, looking as though she yearned to roll her eyes at him. “He is not someone to take lightly, Bartemius.”

He couldn’t recall the last time she’d used his full name. It might have been when he was younger at some family reunion of sorts, and she had scolded him for being troublesome. Yet now, as she stared at him gravely, he knew she meant it.

“I know he is not someone to take lightly. It’s touching, really, thinking you had to tell me this,” he grinned as she now rolled her eyes. “It took me and Wormtail to take him down the last time. I have no death wish, Narcissa.”

She eyed him. “They more than likely suspect you took the girl by now,” she said off-handedly. “Draco has informed me that Dumbledore doesn’t believe the Ministry’s claims that she’s dead. He will look into this.”

He hummed in agreement. “I would expect no less from the Great Albus Dumbledore,” at the way she frowned, he sighed. “Oh Narcissa, you know as well as I do that it’s true. His power is almost as great to that of the Dark Lord’s.”

“You best not let the Dark Lord catch you saying that.”

He offered his hands up in surrender. “I only speak the truth, Cissy, only a fool would say that Dumbledore is not powerful,” he watched as she scowled at the use of her nickname. “Yet Dumbledore will have other things to worry about. Anyone who isn’t Harry Potter will be the least of his concerns.”

“And the girl’s family? The French Ministry of Magic?” Narcissa inquired.

“They’re convinced she’s dead; surely you would know that,” Barty said vaguely, taking in delight at the reminder that she was all his now. “And why would the French Ministry be wasting their efforts on a dead girl?”

The rain had stopped now, with only the wind carrying the droplets of rain from the branches of trees as it blew. Narcissa lowered her umbrella, her ringed fingers dancing nimbly along the handle. “How is she?” she asked suddenly, and to Barty’s surprise, he thought she even sounded interested. Not concerned; he’d die of shock if she were concerned, but she sounded as if she actually wanted to know about his princess’s adjustment.

“I am almost certain she cries a lot when I’m not around,” he answered honestly, recalling how red and puffy her eyes seemed to constantly be. “And when I am around, she treats me coldly. I expected this, naturally. I am sure she will adjust over time.”

Narcissa frowned. “I see,” she said tonelessly. “What else?”

“She’s definitely stubborn, I’ll give her that,” he grinned fondly, thinking of her resolute gaze and the daring way she spoke to him. “It might take a while, getting her to accept her situation, but I don’t mind a challenge. I’d be a little disappointed if there wasn’t one. I’ve never come across anyone like her before; I have no intention of breaking her completely. I don’t want a decorative doll to have around; that would make me more like Rabastan Lestrange than I would ever care to be.”

Narcissa went very silent. Even after he was done speaking, she said nothing and studied his face very meticulously. The Muggles around them walked by, lost in their own worlds to even ponder the severe expression on the older woman’s face. She blinked a few times but made no other movement than that. It felt odd, he had to admit, being dissected so thoroughly that it left him feeling oddly exposed. She carried the same sharp gaze as all the women in her family, leaving nothing out of her scrutiny. He wondered, briefly, if she ever used this look on Draco.

“You can’t love her,” Narcissa finally exclaimed, and something akin to wonder and disgust crossed her face. “Please tell me that you’re not in love with her, Bartemius.”

“You wouldn’t understand,” he sighed at her dramatics. “You married Lucius, after all.”

“There is a difference between lust and love,” she ignored his jab at her husband, cutting him off sharply. “All you did was lust for her from afar. That is not the same as being in love.”

He scowled and squashed down the violent urge to throttle his cousin. What would she even know? It wasn’t like she was even at Hogwarts while he was undercover. It was lust at first, he wouldn’t deny that, when he first saw the girl. Her veela nature only made her more beautiful than any other woman in the world, but there was something else about her that he craved. Even more so than her fae-like beauty.

Gazing up at the sky, Barty recalled his memories of being freed from Azkaban. In his life, he had been born three times. The first, to a mother whose grip on the world varied from moment to moment, and a father who had never cared for him to begin with. Not even as an infant who had woken up in his arms, staring blindly up at the world.

The second time had been when his parents had illegally freed him from prison. Being pried out of his mother’s arms by his father, her words echoing in his ears as she whispered: “It’s okay, love, Mum’s here to make everything better,” despite wearing his face and he hers, it would have been obvious to anyone that it was her speaking. “Oh, don’t cry, my love. I want you to go and live a happy life. Barty, go live your life; I’ve already had mine. Find something, someone to make you happy. Be free. And remember, Mama loves you so, so much.”

As he laid there in the boat, his father’s arms around him so tightly it hurt to breathe, he was born again. The wind slapping his face, mouth catching the salty drops of sea water, and his mother’s words fresh in his mind. The rain mixing in the with tears as the horrible prison grew further and further from his sight. He was free; finally, free.

Of course, it was only momentarily. His father keeping him under the imperious curse on the third floor of the house and during the day, under the confines of the family invisibility cloak. For thirteen years, with only Winky and in rare moments, his father, to talk to. He wondered why he hadn’t gone mad sooner.

The Dark Lord coming to free him was the third time he’d been reborn. As his father lay on the ground under the imperious curse, he knelt before the feet of his master. In shamed, he expected his master to be angry, but the Dark Lord had been sympathetic. “One of my most loyal followers,” he had crooned, eyes gleaming in the darkness of the night. “Bartemius, my loyal follower, I have an important job for you.”

“Whatever it is you ask of me my lord,” he said, kneeling. “I will do as you wish.”

So, he set out in search of Moody, giddy with anticipation and an urge to shout into the night. For the first time in thirteen years, he was outside with no supervision, no invisibility cloak. Under the darkened sky aligned with stars, he had been born again. If freedom had an emotion, it was the one that sung in his veins at that very moment.

However, serving the Dark Lord, while he did so willingly had not been easy. Whatever darkness lay in him, even as a young teenager who’d been recruited during his sixth year, only grew the deeper he was drug into his lord’s servitude. Going further into the darkness, crawling his way up to the top, had taken him further from the light.

Then there was the girl he had stolen away. As he’d said numerous of times, her didn’t desire her just for her beauty. She was bright, full of life and love that it drew him in. Like a man who’d been lost for so long, deprived of even the simplest of courtesy, he wanted to be near her. He wanted her to smile at him like she did towards her sister and friends. Despite her flaws, she shone brighter than anyone else he’d ever come across. Was it because of her veela charm? He wasn’t sure, and even if it was, he didn’t care. He wanted her more than anyone else in the world.

“I don’t need to explain myself to you,” he said coolly. “Love isn’t something you can explain, after all.”

“Oh, don’t be romantic; it doesn’t suit you,” Narcissa pressed her lips together firmly, but there was lingering doubt there, etched into the lines forming on her once flawless face. “But for some unfathomable reason, I think you mean it. I never would have expected this from you, Barty.”

His feet shuffled against the wet sidewalk, leaning casually while she stood stiff as a board. “Why are you asking this?” he asked suspiciously. “I hardly believe you would care about my business.”

“I don’t care,” she reminded him absently. “But I do when certain business could have an effect on my family.”

“She won’t be in your way,” he sighed irritably. “I don’t intend on letting her leave the house for a long time.”

Narcissa raised a thin eyebrow. “So, you’re going to keep her locked away from the rest of the world. Yes, I believe that’s what people do to those they are in love with.”

He ignored her. “She won’t be going to any meetings. I don’t need every man in there distracted.”

“You don’t want to share, you mean,” Narcissa said plainly. “Though I can’t say that I don’t agree. Your little veela would have every man in there competing with each other over her.”

She took a step back, raking over his body disapprovingly. “You should clean up better,” she noted his disheveled hair and worn clothing. “No doubt she would like you more if you weren’t looking so, well, roguish.”

He rolled his eyes. “It’s not like I can just go to my father’s house and get something to wear,” he sneered at her. “And while I’m at it, I’ll just walk into Gringotts and ask to see my family vault. Maybe they’ll be nice enough to let me have some money and retrieve my wand.”

Her expression sharpened severely. “There is no need to take that tone with me,” Narcissa stated, her tone cold. “As much as I find you a potential danger, you are however, still a member of the family. I will, discretely of course, loan you some money.”

He smirked. “Didn’t you just say we’re a barely related?”

Again, Narcissa ignored his mocking tone. “Your grandmother, Charis, was a Black. Therefore, you are a Black. So, I will generously offer you some money until such time as you are able to access your vault. Does that sound fair?”

She extended her right hand, manicured nails catching the sparkling reflection of her rings underneath the lamp light. He took it, grinning at the sour expression she donned. “Deal, dear cousin,” if she wanted to slap him, she refrained from doing so. “You know where to find me.”

“Of course.”

She turned away, and she’d only taken a few steps when she suddenly turned back. “If you want her to stop being so cold, you should try being nice to her,” she called back to him. “She may not appreciate them right away, but gifts are also a nice way to earn her affections.”

And then she disappeared into the night, and in the distance, he could hear her disapparate away. He pondered over her words, and then looked down to what he was wearing. He liked the coat; but she was right. He did look like a vagabond.

Narcissa didn’t usually offer him any advice, or at least, she hadn’t in the past. Even when he was a child, she viewed him with little interest, often choosing to play with her sisters and Sirius, leaving him to play with either Regulus or his mother. It had been made quite clear that the Blacks only considered his family as an extra branch on their family tree. Not that they weren’t included at gatherings and such, but they were not considered as immediate family. Something that had been made quite clear to him at a young age.

However, she had offered him advice now and he wouldn’t overlook that.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of giggling, and his dark gaze turned to see two Muggle girls walking by him. One of the girls, a pretty thing who’d clearly had too much to drink being supported by her friend as she waved down a cab. In the girl’s dark hair, was a satin ribbon tied into a bow that at one point had been neat.

He thought back to Narcissa’s words. Perhaps a present wouldn’t be so bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the information I found on Erklings came from Pottermore and the Harry Potter wiki. 
> 
> Apparently my spellchecker is convinced I'm spelling Hermione and Narcissa wrong, so if you catch something, please let me know. Also, I adore writing Narcissa even though I can't stand people like her in real life. She and Barty are related and, (if I did my calculations correctly; I am terrible at math) they are second cousins once removed. If not, they are still related and I should just stop trying to do math lol.
> 
> Cottage pie is similar to Sheppard's pie, but with beef instead of lamp. Sheppard's pie is an Irish specialty while Cottage pie is more English. I don't like beef or lamb, so I probably wouldn't eat either. 
> 
> Anyways, hope you enjoyed. Please comment if you'd like! Or bookmark, kudo, subscribe, whatever suit's your fancy. See you all next time!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh, I am sorry this is late. This past week has been super busy. We've had supernationals (a racing event) and a town festival all last week, so the place I work at was packed pretty much every day. I had to go in early some days just to help out. Yet it's how my small town gets most of its income, so there's that I guess.
> 
> Anyway, thanks to all the support again! I know I say it every chapter, but I appreciate it so much. This ship is so tiny (and makes no sense, but whatever), an underrated in my opinion. Cracky as it might be, but they've at least had interactions in cannon. There's a small following for LunaxBarty and that boggles me. No ship hate though; I'm not into that behavior, I just don't understand the ship. Then again, look what I'm writing. 
> 
> And once again I went off on an unnecessary tangent. Sorry! Thanks for reading again and welcome to any newcomers. Feedback is always appreciated. Don't be shy!

Fleur never thought in a million years that being held captive would be, in simple terms, boring. In the span of three weeks, Fleur’s life had turned form painful uncertainty to disturbing monotony. The house, while eerily quiet, offered little for her to occupy her time with. Each morning she awoke, had breakfast, dressed, and then hobbled around the manor to find something to do. She had never done well with boredom and that wasn’t about to change anytime soon.

Many of the rooms she had explored thus far were bedrooms that looked as though they hadn’t been touched in years. That wasn’t a far-off assumption; no one had been here in a long time, but that still didn’t stop her from wrinkling her nose at the old smell.

The one room she found herself retreating to the most was a library. It wasn’t grand, not like the one at Beauxbatons, but a small room with six shelves of books. Ranging from color and size, some with gold edgings and others not, she found there was a mix of both Non-Magiques and Wizard books. Winky had obviously attended to this room at some point, for no amount of dust lingered. The curtains had been cleared of doxies and the windows scrubbed clean. The books checked upon to make sure there were no worms eating through the pages. Clearly, this room meant something to the house-elf.

It once belonged to Mrs. Crouch, that she was certain of. In almost every picture she had seen of the woman, she had always been reading. Winky, in a show of respect towards her old mistress, had made sure the room remained untouched by time. Fleur found it to be a safe haven.

Carefully curled up in one of the arm chairs, she lost herself in the books. In the three long weeks she had been here, the books offered a comfort that she could not find in reality. She enjoyed reading as much as the next person, not as much as Harry’s little female friend, but enough that it offered a brief escape from her bleak situation.

She was in the middle of _The Return of the King_ , a Non-Magiques book on a fantasy world called Middle-Earth and how it was up to two small creatures, hobbits, to destroy a ring and save their world. In her little village back home, she had never read Non-Magiques books, and she found she surprisingly liked this author. Even though she found his descriptions to be rather long and parts of it a bit unnecessary, she found herself more engrossed with each turn of the page.

Middle-Earth sounded like a much better place to be than this prison, she thought to herself with a sigh. In three weeks, she’d had no luck on finding out where she was. Carefully hiding the geography books from Winky, she scoured through them on the days she found herself feeling restless. She had nearly thrown one book across the room in a fit of frustration. Over three hundred lakes in England and she still had no clue on where she was. With no way of going outside without Winky or Barty following her, there was no way to narrow down her location.

Fleur let out a huff of annoyance. Her grating tries of finding an escape were not her only problem. She eyed her bandaged ankle contemptuously. In the past few days, it was becoming easier to walk on and she soon would no longer need a crutch. Winky, after examining it, had cheerfully claimed that in about a week or so, it would be fully healed. It was not as damaged as she initially thought, and that was both troublesome and a relief. A good thing, because it meant that it would make walking around and escaping much easier, and a bad thing, for something in Barty had changed.

Upon hearing the news that her ankle would be healed soon, he had been overjoyed. No longer would he have to be mindful when he forced her to have sex. Holding back, while not difficult for him, was not something he enjoyed having to do. She had seen it in his eyes when she noticed him observing her. Darker than black, burning like fire dropped into water.

Suddenly, she no longer felt like reading. She put the book down, shaking the nervous feeling that made her heart flutter like that of the wings of a butterfly. He wanted to be rougher with her, she assumed dismally. With her ankle no longer an inconvenience to him, he could do with her body as he pleased. He would no longer have to treat her like some fragile doll that could break if treated to roughly.

She reached up towards her hair, delicately tracing over the white satin ribbon in her hair. Three weeks ago, he had returned one night, kissing her deeply and reaching into his coat pocket to pull out a wrapped parcel. He watched intensely as she unwrapped it, her shaking fingers undoing the paper to reveal the long hair ribbon.

“I saw it on some Muggle girl,” he said lowly. He took it from her, standing behind her so he could gather her hair and tie it gently. He purred into her ear. “It looks prettier on you than it did her.”

If he was trying to be funny, he failed at it. She now tugged at it, wondering who was the unfortunate soul that had the misfortune to come across him.

_Crack!_

She sat still as a statue as Winky apparated into the room, a look of absolute delight stretching across her pointed features. “Mistress!” she bowed towards Fleur respectfully. “Winky is here to inform you that dinner will be ready in about an hour.”

Was it time already? Fleur glanced towards the heavily curtained window. The late summer sun had already begun to make its descent down the sky, turning the sky a reddish orange. She forced a smile. “Merci, Winky,” and though Winky knew no French, she seemed to understand that it meant thank you. “Is Barty here?”

She prayed that he wasn’t. Normally he didn’t return to the house until much later in the evening, usually when she had already retired to bed. She half expected him to return covered in blood, but that had yet to happen. The Death Eaters must be lying low, she imagined, and she had to wonder why. It was beyond frustrating not knowing what was going on in the outside world.

“Master Barty returned a while ago!” Winky beamed at the mention of his name. “Master Barty told Winky not to bother Mistress because he was busy getting ready.”

“Getting ready?” she inquired sharply. “What for?”

“Guests!” practically bouncing on the balls of her feet, Winky clasped her hands together. “Winky hasn’t prepared for a dinner party is so long, so everything must be perfect!”

Fleur didn’t even bother asking if she had to be there; she already knew the answer. Pressing her lips together firmly, she forced another smile. “I am sure you did everything beyond his expectations,” Winky flushed at the compliment, eyes watering. Fleur glanced at the door. “So, who is coming over?”

“The Malfoy’s,” came Winky’s swift reply. “Master Barty is related to Lord Malfoy’s wife. There were so many parties back in the old days; Winky was often busy with the other house-elves to make sure everything went well.”

She sounded wistful, eyes misting at the reminder of the old days. Fleur nodded. “Thank you again, Winky, for informing me,” she wasn’t sure if she would ever be used to the house-elf bowing to her, and she couldn’t stop from flushing. “I should probably go get ready.”

“Winky still has many things to prepare for,” Winky nodded to herself. “So Winky must leave. Will Mistress be okay getting ready?”

“Oui,” Fleur responded dismissively. “I will be fine.”

“If Mistress needs help, she need only to call Winky’s name.” Winky smiled, bowed again, and disapparated from the room with another cracking noise.

Swallowing hard, Fleur willed herself to stand from her chair. The safe-haven suddenly felt much smaller, or perhaps it was her who had shrunk. She wrung her hands together anxiously, staring at the door in front of her as though it were some obstacle she couldn’t overcome. Her ankle didn’t throb as much as it did three weeks ago, however she reached for her crutch anyhow.

She treaded slowly back to the room she hated most, hand lingering on the door knob. Her chest tightened sharply as she twisted it open, revealing the semi-darkened room. Standing in the doorway, she closed her eyes. If she concentrated hard enough, she could still see it. Him looming over her bound form, rutting into her like a starved animal while she only laid there with tear marks running down her pale cheeks.

She opened her eyes at the odd sensation buzzing in her hands, and she noticed that once more, they were shaking. Why did they keep doing this? She frowned, tossing her head and pushing towards into the room. The bewitched lamps lit as she stepped in, the darkened room now much easier to see through. She gripped her hands on the nearest surface, the dresser, and forced herself to take deep breaths.

_In, Out, In, Out, In, Out, In, Out, In, Out…_

“It won’t do you any good to panic,” she scolded herself, but the tightness in her chest only contracted further. “A bedroom? What a stupid thing to be afraid of!”

Except, she knew full well she wasn’t afraid of the bedroom. She, well, she didn’t want to think of what she was truly afraid of.

“I am afraid of nothing,” she said to herself, taking in another forceful deep breath. “You are a Delacour! And Delacour’s are not afraid of stupid things; we laugh in the face of fear!”

Her beloved father had told her that her whole life, and up till now, she had believed him. She had never been afraid of the dark, not even as a child. She never feared going off on her own, for she always knew where her family would be. The only times she had felt true fear, had been in this past year. Facing the dragon, almost losing Gabrielle, and knowing how far a man would go just to obtain her.

Fleur cleared her throat, and as she looked towards the bed, something caught her eye. Curiosity took over, and while the tightness in her chest lingered, she did not stop herself from staring at the dress that had been carefully draped over the bed. It looked remarkably similar to the one she’d worn at the Yule Ball, though not as long and more silver than gray. Made of silk, it appeared as though it had cost quite a bit of money.

It was pretty, she would not deny that.

She looked at herself in the mirror, and she gave a small smile that felt more genuine than any of the other ones she’d made in weeks. It flattered her body, hugging against her curves in all the right places. Her silvery hair flowed behind her, and she maneuvered it so that draped over her shoulders, hiding the bruises on her neck.

“Buying me dresses,” she scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Thinking he can use me as some decorative doll.”

Well, she was no doll, she decided haughtily. At once, the tightness dispersed, making way for the anger to come through. She tightened her hands into fists, her jaw clenching tightly. If he thought he could gain her affections through gifts, he was sorely mistaken.

 _“Beauty and despair for us live side by side,”_ a new voice rang in her mind, older and much wiser than herself. A familiar voice that she had not heard in a while. _“Men will adore you, women despise you, but you must rise above them, ma chère_. _Your beauty is a not only a gift, but also your greatest weapon if need be.”_

Her grand-maman; how could she have forgotten those words? It felt so long ago, in a world much farther than the one she now resided in. Sitting in her grandmother’s kitchen, a cup of lavender tea in her hands and the afternoon sun pouring through the window. She enjoyed having tea with her grand-maman every Sunday, and it was only shortly after her fourteenth birthday, did her grand-maman utter those words.

 _“Our veela ‘eritage is more than just beauty,”_ her grand-maman told her tenderly, taking ahold of her hand. _“It is old magic, Fleur, and it is more powerful than I think you know. If you are ever in dire need, it will keep you alive. But only if you know how to use it,”_ her grand-maman smiled. _“A single memory could even save your life one day._

She smiled to herself, the memory igniting a warm fire in her chest. She had giggled at what her grand-maman said, not understanding the meaning at first. She thought her grand-maman was simply teasing her, or being purposefully vauge. Yet now, she knew her grand-maman meant something entirely different and she felt rather silly now for not taking her seriously then.

She stared at herself determinedly in the mirror. Fairy princess she may appear to be, but deep down, there existed something else entirely. No one could ever extinguish the flame ignited inside her. She would be the shield maiden to her own story, or at the very least, she would try to be.

The door opened with a creaking sound, and she needed not to look away from her reflection to see who it was.

“You’re beautiful,” Barty’s voice purred silkily as he placed his hands on her waist. “I knew it would look lovely on you.”

 _“Don’t flinch,”_ she reprimanded herself as his dexterous hands slid down the gown. _“Don’t flinch, don’t flinch, don’t flinch…”_

“It’s been a long day,” he gave a sigh, finally releasing her to sit on the edge of the bed. She still refused to look at him. “And it’s going to be an even longer night now that I have to put up with Cissy and her husband.”

She knew he just rolled his eyes, and a part of her wanted to sneer and say: “You poor thing, ‘aving to spend time with people you don’t like. Me? I’m worried about my safety every single day since being kidnapped by an unstable lunatic!”

But she didn’t. She didn’t say anything at all.

“You remember their son, don’t you? Draco? I turned him into a ferret once,” there was a smirk in his voice, like he was remembering the instance fondly. “He might be there; I’m sure you’ll have much to talk about.”

She smoothed down her dress but did not say the scathing remark that was burning on the tip of her tongue. “I don’t recall ever speaking to ‘im,” she said airily, tossing her head. “’Is dress robes for the ball made ‘im look like a _vicaire_.”

Barty chuckled, and when he did, she finally looked at him from the silvery mirror. She nearly did a double take, eyes widening ever so slightly. He looked…different. No longer was his hair tousled and somewhat disheveled; the trench coat he normally wore gone. Instead, he wore a three-piece suit. Black, with thin lines of purple and a golden lapel chain connecting to one of the buttons. His hair appeared as though he had finally taken a comb to it, slicked back and parting it mostly towards the right to give it more volume.

She wanted to say he looked decent for once, but she could not find her voice. He raised an eyebrow. “Like what you see?”

Surprise prevented her from biting back her derisive snort. “Purple is not your color.” She lied, maintaining the guise of nonchalance.

“You wound me,” his grin proved otherwise. “Turn around, I have a present for you.”

She raised her eyes. “Another one? My, ‘ow generous. What sort of present is it?”

“An I-am-sorry present,” his eyes flashed. “For breaking your ankle. It’s mostly healed now, isn’t it?”

“Mostly,” she responded curtly. “It will be nice to not ‘ave to use a crutch to walk.”

“Indeed,” he agreed, but something lingered in his voice that made her blanch. “Now, turn around so I can give it to you.”

She turned, albeit slowly to see what he was holding in his hands. The item glimmered in his hands, catching the light of the lamps and sparkling. He held it up for her, letting it dangle in midair on its silver chain. Within edgings of deep gold, sat a cameo holding the ivory white silhouette of a woman’s face, decorated with vines of flowers engraved into a background of robin’s egg blue. It must have been worth quite a bit of money judging by how old it looked.

“It once belonged to my mother,” Barty said serenely, stepping around her to place it around her neck. “My father gave it to her as a wedding present. She gave it to me in hopes that I would one day give it to the woman I love. Quite a sentimental woman, my mother.”

She looked down at the weight that had settled against her collar bone. It felt more like a chain than a present. She touched it gently, and had the vaguest idea that Mr. Crouch, wherever his body lay, was rolling in his grave.

“You must miss ‘er,” she said abruptly. “You speak of your Maman quite a bit.”

For the longest time, Barty said nothing. His gaze moved from her, to the necklace, then back to her. He smiled with mirth. “My mother was a weak-willed woman. She could have stood up to my father, but she didn’t,” his voice betrayed no other emotion. “She did have her uses in the end, though. I owe her my freedom, short lived as it was.”

Fleur stood there aghast, her mouth hanging open from shock. “She was your mother,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “And you speak of ‘er as though she were merely a pawn.”

“Now, now, love, don’t get all upset,” Barty grinned, watching as she rippled with fury. “What is I said is the truth; she did have a weak-will, but I do still owe her my livelihood. More years in Azkaban would have made me insan _er_.”

“’Ow so?” Fleur asked, defiantly staring up at him. “I would ‘ave thought being trapped in your own ‘ome for thirteen years would ‘ave done that.”

His grinned widened, giving her the impression of a madman. “You might be right there,” he laughed. “Or perhaps I was born insane. Who knows? We could ask my father, but I believe he’s missing a few parts to give us a complete answer.”

She paled considerably, opening her mouth to reply, but he was already on a tangent. “I admit that stealing you away was reckless; something only an insane man would do,” he said lowly, tone darkening with each sentence. “I keep you here, locked like a princess in her tower,” he purred huskily, and she subconsciously moved backwards to create more distance between them. “I’ve lived so long in the dark, Princess. Maybe that darkness is what’s made me insane. Hard to say, really.”

In that moment, she knew. Nothing she could say would remove that crazed look from his face for she had no kind words to give him. He inclined his head to her. “Nothing to say? That’s unusual for you; normally you always have something scathing to say.”

What was there to say to a dangerously unstable man? Whatever cold remark she wanted to say, she kept locked up inside. Last thing she needed was to make him more unstable than he already was. The best thing for her to do was to keep quiet. Choose her words carefully, and make sure she remained alive and intact.

Swallowing down the quivering fear, she stepped towards him. Hands steady for once, with only a single goal in her mind. He tracked her movements with those intensely dark eyes, and something in them seemed uncertain in what her goal was. She nearly smirked, and giddy with anticipation that what she was about to do, she reached for him.

Her slender hand gently touched his cheek. Slowly, she drew herself up a little higher so she could tenderly press her lips against his. His breath hitched, as though surprised, but it didn’t take long for him to respond eagerly. Deepening the kiss as his hands drew up her body, one of them tangling in her long hair. It was eerily similar to the kiss that led to her second time, and while a part of her cringed, she remained steady in her movements.

When she pulled back, she softly lowered her gaze. “Thank you for the gift,” she murmured. “It was very thoughtful of you.”

He grinned much less manically this time. “There’s a good girl,” he crooned, and she internally bristled at being treated as though she were some sort of pet. “And you’re welcome.”

He certainly seemed pleased, for he smiled in smug satisfaction. Fleur swallowed her pride in resisting the urge to wretch. She loathed him with every fiber of her being and this was not a secret to him. _“You’ll learn to love me,”_ his words echoed around in her mind like the vaguest of whispers. Well, she wasn’t sure about that, but she was sure about something else.

She would never, in any other situation, use her veela magic to lure someone into a false sense of security. She normally would cringe at the very thought of it, but now, she knew what she had to do. It was risky. There was a chance it may not even work, but she would try. While her plan on figuring out the geography of her location had hit a major roadblock, this one had not yet.

Barty was the darkness that had wormed its way into her soul. A blemish that would never come off, even if she managed to escape. He would forever be a part of her history. His “precious light”, as he referred to her as. Warm and soothing against the instability he brought onto himself. Yet he had forgotten one key thing.

Light may be warm and inviting, but it could change in a single moment. Light could heal, but it could also destroy. Warm and then burn away anything in its path.

No one, not even Barty, would extinguish the flame that had been lit deep within her.

~

Dinner had been an…odd affair, to say the least.

Fleur spent the entire meal in silence, poking at her food while Barty, Lucius and Narcissa chatted away. The Malfoys had decided, in the end, to leave their son at home. More than likely thinking it too risky to bring him over, just in case he accidentally let something slip to Harry that he knew where she was. That was what Lucius said, but the look in Narcissa’s eyes said something entirely different. In her frosty blue gaze, staring directly at Barty, it was obvious to everyone who she was keeping Draco away from.

She wasn’t surprised that no one, apart from the occasional remark from her captor, said anything towards her. A family like the Malfoys would not bother to waste their precious time by speaking to someone as “lowly” as her. Uneasy as it made her feel, she said nothing about it and proceeded to poke at her dinner.

She pushed at the roast beef in front of her, not feeling particularly hungry. She still stood by what she’d said months ago about English food; it was much too heavy. A pang of homesickness prickled at her heart. At any other time, she would have been enjoying her mother’s cotriade and servings of cider. She’d have crepes for dessert, not the various puddings and tarts the Brits were so fond of.

She pushed her plate away, her appetite now fully gone.

If anyone noticed, they didn’t appear to care. Lucius Malfoy proceeded to carry on his conversation about some new article the _Dailey Prophet_ had written about Harry Potter. “They’re saying that he’s absolutely insane,” Lucius said arrogantly, brandishing his cup of wine. “And Dumbledore too. They think old Dumbledore put Potter up to it.”

“As if anyone would take the word of a fifteen-year-old boy seriously,” Barty commented, leaning back in his seat. “It’d be completely out of character for Fudge if he did take Dumbledore’s side. They won’t realize the Dark Lord is back until it’s too late.”

Narcissa smiled thinly, and to Fleur, it made her look as though she were sucking on lemons. “As it were, we should still exercise caution,” and she looked to both her husband and cousin in thinly concealed sternness. “Exposure would ensure complications, and I can scarcely imagine that either of you would want that.”

Lucius sighed. “Narcissa, dear, there is no need to worry,” he gave her a smile. “After the generous donations we’ve given to various organizations over the years, Fudge hardly suspects our family of being Death Eaters.”

“True, and I hope it shall remain that way,” Narcissa’s sharp gaze roamed over to where Barty sat, still leaning form. “Though I feel some of us don’t need that reminder.”

Barty grinned. “Thanks for the kind words, Cissy,” and Fleur could only watch in astonishment as Narcissa bristled at the nickname. Barty’s grin only widened. “As always, they are most appreciated.”

If anything, the woman’s words hadn’t been all too kind at all, but Fleur kept her mouth shut. Lucius, noticing the daggers his wife was shooting towards her cousin, cleared his throat casually. “Any luck so far, Barty, in finding the whereabouts of Sirius Black?”

Sirius Black? Mass murderer? While Black’s escape had Britain all in turmoil almost two years ago, the French Ministry had their own Aurors on the lookout. Why would the Dark Lord want him? To reward him, she figured. Then again, with the way the three Death Eaters were looking at one another, she had the faintest idea that she was missing something quite important.

“I suspect that Blood Traitor is hiding out somewhere,” Barty responded easily, with a hint of malice tracing the edges of his voice. “Dumbledore’s already rounding up the Order, so I imagine they’re keeping him somewhere close by.”

“He won’t reveal himself,” Narcissa added on snidely. “My traitorous cousin, no doubt wherever he is, they’re making sure he’s behaving himself. He always was a bit of a loose cannon.”

“Yes, well, he is no threat to us,” Lucius uttered smoothly, his pale face smirking. “He’ll be a dead man walking if someone were to see him out on the streets.”

“If it involves Harry Potter, you know he won’t be far behind,” Narcissa sighed irritably. “He is the boy’s godfather, after all. Perhaps he feels some sort of parental duty when it comes to the Potter boy.”

Sirius Black was Harry Potter’s godfather? Fleur sat there, completely surprised by this new piece of information, and quickly she clamped her jaw tightly. Last thing she needed was for them to think she was listening in on their conversation.

“So, has the little fairy been giving you any trouble?” Lucius suddenly inquired, changing the subject completely as three pairs of eyes fixated on her. She stiffened, finding the sharp cold gaze of the pale haired man uncomfortable. Lucius sneered. “I’ve heard that veelas don’t like being told what to do; they don’t take commands very well. How true is that, Barty?”

She did not shirk away as Barty took her hand into his, thumb rubbing over her knuckles gently, as though a lover would. “Oh, she fought me at first,” he began airily, in a manner that suggested he was discussing the weather. “Though I will say that I find her stubbornness to be rather endearing, if not challenging. But I think we’re beginning to make progress, wouldn’t you say, _Ma Princesse_?”

With the way all three of them were staring at her, she forced a smile on her face and nodded. Barty didn’t appear to be bothered by a nonverbal response, but Lucius raised an eyebrow. “I see she won’t speak unless she feels like it,” he sneered. “It appears you have your work cut out for you, Barty.”

She noticed the way his jaw tightened firmly, an unknown habit she noticed he shared with his father. “As I said, she has a tendency to dig her heels in,” he answered coolly. “If you think you can do better than me, Lucius, then I implore you to try.”

Narcissa cut in before her husband could respond to her captor’s challenge. “This is hardly appropriate dinner conversation,” she said sharply. “Need I remind both of you of your manners? Muggle men may talk like this, but I should think that Pureblood wizards such as yourselves would know how to behave.”

Lucius had the decency to look chastised. “Apologies, Narcissa dear,” he took his wife’s hand. “You are right, of course.”

A silence fell over the table, with only the clinking of silverware and glasses as the only sound. Every so often, she felt Narcissa’s sharp eyes on her, but when she would look up, the woman would turn her head away. If she had something she wanted to say, she wasn’t going to say it with Barty and Lucius around.

Wiping his mouth with a napkin, Lucius pushed his plate away. “Lovely,” he began in a tone that suggested otherwise. Fleur almost snorted at how unapologetic he was. “Now then, Barty, I think we have some business to discuss. Perhaps somewhere a bit more…private?”

His gray eyes landed on her, and in that moment, she saw nothing but disdain in them. She felt her cheeks flush out of anger, but she bit the inside of her mouth to stay quiet. Barty glanced at her. “Of course, Lucius,” he practically sneered the name. “Will you be joining us, Narcissa?”

“In a moment.” said Narcissa stiffly, her eyes lingering on some ornament gracing the mantelpiece of the dining room.

A shadow fell over her, and she looked up to see that Barty had stepped over towards her. “Sorry love,” he smiled almost apologetically. “But I highly doubt that Death Eater business would be of interest to you.”

She saw the challenge burning in his eyes, and oh, he must have known that she was interested. For completely different reasons, of course. “I understand,” she said with the barest hint of resignation. She then leaned up, one hand steadying herself on his shoulder so she could give him a chaste kiss.

He smiled, obviously pleased. “Good girl,” and as much as she hated him saying that, she loathed the burning desire in his eyes even more. “This shouldn’t take long, should it, Lucius?”

Lucius merely schooled his features into one of disinterest. “We shall see.”

He gave her one last kiss before heading off with Lucius towards the drawing room, and Fleur finally let out the breath she’d been holding in. Winky emerged from the door leading to the kitchens, waving her hand expertly to lift the dishes from the table. She kept her eyes lowered, her head bowed as the plates and other tableware hovered into the air.

“I see what you are doing.”

How could she have forgotten that Narcissa was still in the room? The older woman regarded her tautly, cold eyes fixated upon her with an expression that suggested discontentment. Now that she was standing, Fleur noted she held herself in the same self-important stature of her husband. The Delacour family was just as old as the Malfoy’s but did not carry the same reputation. Fleur had never seen her own parents carry themselves in such a conceited manner.

“You looked as though you wanted to smack him,” Narcissa carried on when Fleur said nothing. “Not that I would blame you, my cousin has always had a way of getting under people’s skin.”

Narcissa stepped away from the table slowly, at her own leisure as she eyed the item from earlier. Fleur noticed the old rings she wore on her slim fingers, each one as ancient as the last. How much they would be worth today, she did not know.

“I’ve never cared for Elowen Crouch’s style,” Narcissa said abruptly, glancing back towards Fleur and noting the necklace around her. “Barty’s mother. I think she liked pastels a bit too much, though, not that it really matters. You’re the lady of the house, now.”

Fleur paled. “I am no such thing,” she muttered, speaking to the woman for the first time that night since their introduction. “To say such a thing would imply that ‘e and I are married.”

Narcissa waved her off dismissively. “You might as well be,” and the way she eyed her informed Fleur that Narcissa knew very well what was going on behind closed doors. “Though you’re not just a pretty thing. The Goblet only chooses those who are worthy to compete in the tournament. Those of skill and quick wit. You wouldn’t have survived for so long if you didn’t have some skill.”

Fleur tossed her head, frowning. “What are you trying to imply?” she asked coolly. “My veela ‘eritage does not make me incompetent.”

“Clearly,” Narcissa raised her eyebrows in a show of skepticism. Her hand traced over the back of the dining room chair and by the way her nose wrinkled, it was undoubtedly out of distaste. Those discerning blue eyes of hers never left Fleur’s. “Your grandmother, was she not Adora Delalune?”

At the way Fleur’s eyes widened, Narcissa found her answer. “I am glad to be correct,” she did not wait for Fleur to answer, instead smiling serenely. “I was told in my childhood that during the second world war, there was a veela who convinced Grindelwald’s followers to not kill the man she loved. Now whether that is true, I do not know, but it’s interesting. Would you not agree?”

Fleur said nothing in response. Inside, her heart was pounding. How had this woman found out that information so quickly? It was true, her grand-maman had rescued her grand-papa just by speaking to the wizard about to kill him. Her grand-papa, who’d been wounded, had not been able to defend himself so her grand-maman placed herself in between him and the dark wizard. The story was famous within her family; one she’d enjoyed listening to as a child.

“And what does this ‘ave to do with me?” she asked reproachfully. “My grand-maman’s act of ‘eroism cannot interest you that much.”

“You veela have an ancient magic,” Narcissa’s eyes gleamed in the candlelight as she ignored her. “The way you dance, and sing has an impact not only humans, but on others as well. Yet to influence someone just by speaking and have them do your bidding, now, that’s a skill not all of you can do. Is it?”

After a moment’s pause, Fleur considered her words very carefully. “All veela ‘ave natural influence over ‘uman beings. My grand-maman told me and everyone else in the family that. It is not new information.”

“It makes men act like complete fools,” Narcissa gave a little sigh, tossing her head back proudly. “And as I said earlier, I know what you’re doing.”

Fleur tensed. “And what do you think I am doing?”

Narcissa smiled condescendingly. “if you had your wand, I’m sure you’d use it on him and escape by now. However, since you don’t have it, you’re going to have to rely on something else. You’re going to use your greatest weapon on him: yourself.”

Fleur hissed, stepping back from the woman as though she had been burnt. Narcissa simply rolled her eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself; I have no intention of stopping you,” with that, she stopped and eyed the older woman warily. Narcissa sighed irritably. “I only ask one thing of you.”

“You would ask me for a favor?” Fleur asked haughtily, glaring at the woman’s now cold expression. “You must be fooling yourself if you think I would ever trust you!”

“Trust me or not, it makes little difference to me,” Narcissa rolled her eyes. “In exchange for my silence on your plan, I simply ask that if you do manage to escape, you remain quiet on my husband’s activities.”

Fleur blinked in astonishment at such a request, but Narcissa’s severity did not change. She crossed her hands in front of her dark dress, tapping her fingers against her olden rings. “I could always tell my cousin of your ulterior motives,” Narcissa said simply. “Even though we are related distantly, he is still a member of the Black family. It would be considered highly disloyal of me if I did not tell him.”

She could tell by the word “disloyal” that Narcissa did not care one way or another if Barty knew of her plan. Or didn’t. Narcissa had laid her cards out on the table, waiting for her to accept her deal or not. Fleur pursed her lips. “I can’t rely on your word alone,” she held Narcissa’s gaze defiantly. “’Ow do I know you won’t just tell ‘im anyway?”

Narcissa’s lips curled upwards in a cruel sardonic smile. “Clever girl,” she praised, but the light tone did not meet her eyes. “A smart girl like you; no wonder you’ve lasted this long. Even if you are a half-breed,” she ignored the insult, waiting for Narcissa to continue. The older woman cleared her throat. “Alright, I will help you.”

“’Elp me?”

“Not to escape, I assure you,” Narcissa continued indifferently. “If you want to do that, you’re on your own. However, I can help you survive.”

“Survive?”

“If you don’t adapt, you will die,” Narcissa sighed. “You’re not just a pretty face and believe me, Barty is aware of that. He just doesn’t want to share you just yet. But the Dark Lord is very much aware of your veela magic. It’s only a matter of time until he has found a way to use it. The Dark Lord only keeps those around who are useful, and once their usefulness is up, well, I am sure you know what happens.”

Fleur remained silent, letting the words sink in. A part of her went cold at the thought of the Dark Lord knowing about her, and she found it even more disturbing that he thought he could use her for his own twisted gain. Yet knowing that Barty had thought of other uses for her made her nearly dazed. In his own troubling way of “loving” her, he was actively thinking of ways to utilize her. All just to keep her around. She didn’t whether to feel glad or sick.

“This is not just about escape, this is also about survival,” Narcissa said evenly. “I may not be a Death Eater, but I made sure long ago that the Dark Lord knows of my usefulness. And I will not let you ruin everything I’ve worked hard for.”

While she sounded calm, there was a flash of danger in those taciturn caerulean eyes. Fleur swallowed. She didn’t trust this woman, not even a bit but if there was even a small way she could help her then she would accept. An ally wouldn’t be that bad to have around. She’d heard her father and others say before: “ _Garder tes amies proches et tes ennemies encore plus_.”

Narcissa stuck out her hand. “Are we in agreement, then?”

Tossing back a curtain of silvery hair, Fleur squared her shoulders back in the way she’d seen her mother and grandmother do when faced with a challenge. She took the woman’s slender hand, grasping it firmly.

“It is a deal.” She said resolutely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took so long too write ugh, but it's done. I feel like I'm missing some things in my notes, so if I go back in them and change something, I'll let you know. Here's another few French translations we can thank google translate for. If you have a better translation, please please let me know! I only know English, Spanish, and bits of Mandarin after all: 
> 
> Ma Cherie- Darling  
> Garder tes amies proches et tes ennemies encore plus- Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.  
> Delalune- Of the moon. This is literally a made up last name so don't attack me. If JK can do it so can I.
> 
> Cotriade is a speciatly from the Brittany region of France. This is where I headcanon where Fleur is from. It's similar to Bouillabaisse except that it doesn't typically contain shellfish and is served on a toasted baguette. In the UK it's known as Brittany Fish Stew. 
> 
> I did a three week time skip because it would take forever for the plot to get somewhere if I wrote out everyday. I won't time skip all the time as I am planning something for this story, but I don't think three weeks is that bad. It took me a while to figure out what to name Fleur's grandmother, so I decided on the name Adora. It's of Greek origin that means "a gift; beloved; adored". I thought it fit and I like the sound of it. 
> 
> I'm did some research on veelas both from the HP universe and from mythology. I've made a few of my own headcanons and will be incorporating them in this. Such as there are male-veelas, they just look like very attractive men and do have the powers of the female. I could go on, but I'll probably bring it up at some point. The allure of veelas is something I drew from Tolkien. Kudos to all of you who spotted the tiny Lord of the Rings reference! The idea of some veelas having the ability of using their charm without having to put on a show is something I drew from Tolkien's character of Luthien. While not entirely the same, veelas who can do this are using the ancient magic of charming. If it still confuses you, let me know! This is an idea I'm still expanding on, so do tell me.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is so short! I can't promise the lengths of each chapter, but we've got some plot related stuff not directly involving Fleur to get its foundations. While this chapter isn't really action heavy, it does introduce a character that will have an important part to play later on. This chapter originally had Barty in it, but since I'm still having issues with Voldemort's portrayal along with certain Death Eaters, that part won't be up till probably next week, or the week after that. I hope you all understand. 
> 
> My absence from pretty much all my work has mainly been writer's block. I just haven't felt the inspiration to work on anything and real life responsibilities don't exactly help matters. I've also been sick for the past two weeks, so that didn't help either. I'm feeling better now though, so I hope I'll feel more motivated to do things. 
> 
> Also happy late Halloween to everyone. I'm not really a Halloween person, but I did have fun eating candy. Being confined in the living room by my mother wasn't too much fun, but it's better than getting unsuspecting children sick.

It was raining quite heavily outside as it had been for the past few days. Dark heavy clouds hung over the city of Bristol in an ominous embrace. Many passersby commented about the unusually heavy feeling in the air, but like most muggles, they shrugged it off as just unusual weather. A strange sort of feeling hung in the air, sizzling with anticipation. Something was going to happen, or perhaps something had happened already. But exactly what it was, no one knew for sure.

“I don’t think I’ve seen it this bad in years,” a man stated to his wife as they walked down the street, huddling under an umbrella. “I swear the last time it was this bad was about fourteen years ago!”

“Darling, bad weather isn’t an uncommon occurrence,” his wife chastised, but she then gave a small shriek of surprise as the umbrella suddenly threw itself in the direction of the wind. Her husband, now covered in rain and sputtering, managed to close it down towards them. She blinked in surprise, raising her eyes towards the sky. “Although,” she managed to say, rubbing the rain out of her eyes. “This storm does seem to be particularly strong.”

The man and his wife then hurried down the street, the man’s shoe nearly missing the newspaper that lay in front of what appeared to be a vacant office building. Nestled between a bakery and a hardware store advertising 10% off Grunning’s drills, there sat a newspaper. A newspaper sitting in the street wouldn’t be such an uncommon occurrence if it were not for the small gray owl sitting on top of it, cooing and glancing up disdainfully at the heavy rain that dripped down onto its now matted feathers.

The owl tapped its talon against the paper in a show of irritation. It shuddered, ruffling its feathers as it tried to scoot itself further away from the rain. Attached to its leg was small pouch and it jingled with every movement the owl made. The evening lamps cast ghostly shadows onto the darkened streets, but no one seemed to notice the owl. No one also seemed to notice that the vacant office building was in fact not so vacant.

The building, in actuality, was an old-fashioned establishment made from old bricks that appeared darker in the rain. Above a worn oak door, there was an even older sign painted in white letters that advertised “Madam Aradia’s Magical Remedies and Services.” It swung steadily in the wind, creaking along its hinges as though it would fall off.

The door to the building opened so suddenly the owl had to scrabble away in order to not get hit by it. It let out a disgruntled hoot, stamping the ground with its foot in a show of annoyance. A woman stepped into the threshold, sharp eyes gazing down at the feathered creature.

“What in Merlin’s name are you doing on the floor?” she asked in astonishment, barely keeping the derision out of her voice. “Don’t you know I have a perfectly good window you could sit at?”

The owl stared at the woman it what could unmistakably pass as a glare. The woman sighed, kneeling down to offer her arm out to the creature. “Come now, let’s get you out of the rain, eh? Bet you’d like to dry your feathers out somewhere much warmer.”

The owl hooted in agreement and hopped onto her arm.

Inside, the freezing atmosphere of the late summer rain disappeared and was replaced with warmth and a faint smell of something being brewed. The woman passed into the main room, stepping through the opened double doors and revealing a long table covered with various magical ingredients, a mortar and pestle not far away from them. Various shelves of potions and other remedies lined the walls along with photos of famous healers and mediwizards. Tucked away near a sink, sat a photo of a much younger looking woman in lime green robes, standing in front of St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Next to her stood a woman of identical appearance and height on her left, and to her right, a young man in his mid-twenties with dark hair and the beginnings of a mustache.

The woman opened a door to her right, stepping gingerly up a flight of stairs until she reached a small living room. Books scattered along the coffee and end tables, a few of them sitting on a rose-colored sofa and arm chair. The woman stepped along the creaking floorboards, through an archway that led to the kitchen. A cauldron sat on the table emitting a gray translucent fog that she inspected.

“So, it didn’t boil over,” she said smugly to the owl. “I am so relieved. Now, what is all the fuss about?”

The owl hopped off her arm and onto the table, proceeding to nip at its feathers. The woman sat down at the kitchen table, unfolding the newspaper with long careful fingers. Her dark eyes observed the headline, brows furrowing as her expression changed from intrigue to disgust. After a while, she threw the paper down.

“Nonsense,” she muttered, staring down at a photo of skinny dark-haired boy with glasses and a lightening shaped scar. The headline screaming: “The Boy Who Lies?” and the words underneath stating that Harry Potter used the Patronus Charm in the presence of his muggle cousin. The woman picked the paper back up, scanning the article one more time. “Merlin’s beard, this cannot be true? He’s just a boy!”

She threw the paper back down again, startling the owl who gave a hoot of surprise. She glanced at the creature, giving it a once over before she briskly headed over towards the counter. She dug into a bag, picking up a Knut and gently placed it in the bag attached to the owl’s leg. She patted it on its head. “Thank you, little one,” she crooned sweetly, the owl nuzzling its head into her palm. “Poor thing, they made you fly out into the awful weather. You can stay a while till it calms down. Don’t know when that’ll be though.”

She pursed her lips together firmly. The owl stared up at her solemnly, as though it sensed the deep concern. Wearily, she sighed. “Life must be easy for you, little one,” she said softly. “Recently, it just seems like an endless dream. A beautiful, but sad dream.”

She glanced towards accent table that stood near two closed doors. Photos aligned the dark wood, moving images that stared at her unfazingly. A photo of two middle aged people, with two identical young girls at their side and a young teenage boy in the middle. Two more photos: one of the young teenage boy now an adult, a small blonde woman dressed in white in his arms and the other of the identical looking young woman arm in arm with a young man.

There was a photo in the middle of the table, surrounded by white candles and a small vase of lilies. The older woman treaded lightly to where the photo was, tracing the edge of the frame with an expression of grief. An older man with his black hair graying and a fine cut pencil mustache. “My older brother,” she said softly, and where the owl was listening or not, she paid no mind. “And I never got to say good bye.”

She thought of recent events bitterly. The bone they found her brother transfigured into had been remedied, and now he was resting next to the empty grave where his wife lay. Murdered by his own son, her dear sweet nephew. She had been in charge of the funeral. A small affair that she didn’t expect many people to show up. Her brother’s recent actions were now out in public view, and many had reacted both negative and sympathetically. Not many attended the funeral, though Cornelius Fudge showed up. Out of obligation, of course. Not out of sentimentality.

She had stood in front of the grave for what seemed to be hours, even as the sun began to set. Nothing in her but melancholy and bitter regret. After the funeral of their mother, and long after Elowen’s, their relationship had been strained. He dismissed her invitations to have lunch; practically banned her from ever stepping foot into her childhood home. Threw himself further into his work, further withdrawing himself from his family.

It wasn’t until she felt the gentle grasp of her twin sister, Endora’s, hand on her shoulder did she break out of her thoughts. Headstrong Endora, who left Brittan to move to the United States with her husband. After getting into a fight with their brother at their own mother’s funeral, neither she nor Barty Sr. had seen in her in 22 years.

Her parents were long gone, and she had made peace with a long time ago. Elowen’s death hurt her almost as much as it did Barty Sr. Their son, her dear nephew…well, that wasn’t something she was quite ready to deal with just yet.

She eyed the photo of her brother holding his two-year-old son. Her smile shaking, her heart gave a pang of sorrow. That dear, sweet and clever boy. What happened to him? The events regarding her older brother’s crime revealed for the rest of the wizarding world to see. It made sense now, she mused. Why he was rarely ever home. Why he never let her into the house. All to make sure his secrets remained that: secrets.

It had worked for thirteen years. Barty Jr. remained prisoner in his own home, hidden from the prying eyes of the world. Only to then kill his father when the opportunity arose.

She couldn’t excuse her nephew’s crimes, but still, how much had solitude and the use of curses driven him to commit such a horrible deed?

Now Lord Voldemort had returned. Like in the first war, she would not join either side. She didn’t agree with the dark lord’s methods, but at the same time, she quietly agreed that they should not have to hide from the muggles. She didn’t hate muggle borns; she didn’t wish for their deaths, but she held pride in her own blood status. She never told her brother of her views. Her older brother, an avid believer that the dark arts were heinous would probably have thrown her into Azkaban along with all the others who dared hold pride in their blood status.

She wasn’t foolish enough to be a Death Eater, unlike her poor nephew. By joining their ranks, he had made his bed.

A sudden rapping sound against her kitchen window snapped her out of her thoughts. She glided towards the window, where a much larger gray owl sat on the window boxes, shaking its head to remove the droplets of water. It was raining much less now, and though opening the window meant that a cold wind blew in, she noticed out of the corner of her eye that the Ministry owl had fallen asleep. The large owl flew in, dropping a snow-white envelop into her outstretched palms before landing on the other side of the kitchen table. The other owl, however, remained oblivious to this.

She stared down at the envelop, turning it over to see the ink black writing. Slowly, her eyes widened as though her heart had suddenly seized up. She turned it over several times in her hand. The writing was unmistakable; she’d seen it many times before. Yet, she could scarcely believe it now that it was lying in her outstretched palm.

“Son of a Bludger!” she whispered, sinking back down into the kitchen chair. “This…it can’t be! He’s a prat if he thinks that the Ministry won’t be watching his movements.”

Or perhaps they weren’t, she thought suspiciously. With all the factitious they were saying about Dumbledore and that Potter boy, it was highly likely that the Ministry didn’t care what her nephew was doing at all. There was even a chance, a small one at best, that the Ministry hadn’t sent out any Aurors to catch him.

She tore open the envelope hurriedly, unfolding the letter with trembling hands.

_My dear Aunt Aradia,_

_I do apologize for writing to you like this without any such warning; it’s not very thoughtful of me at all to suddenly spring this letter upon you. But as you are probably aware by now, I am alive and well. Unfortunately, I cannot tell you where I am for reasons that you can undoubtedly guess for yourself. I understand if you are angry, and I completely understand if you want me to be dead. My father was your brother, and for any amount of grief it has caused you, I apologize for that. Still, I also understand that you may wish for me to never speak to you again and for that, I apologize again. Nevertheless, I must ensure you that you will not be able to trace this letter to my location. So, any attempt you may have to contact the Ministry about my whereabouts will prove to be ineffectual._

_If you are still reading this letter, then I feel I should relent to you as to what I’ve been doing for the past year. As you most likely already know, I have been masquerading as ex-Auror Alastor Moody. My efforts to bring the Dark Lord back were successful, and that he is alive once more. I only tell you this because out of all my family, you have understood me in a way my parents never could. I have ensured that even if you do not speak to me again, no harm shall come to you or Aunt Endora._

_By this point I’m assuming you’re still reading this. Father never wanted you to know that I was alive, but it is because of him and my mother that I am here today. My mother, sick as she was, could not bear to die knowing that I would rot away in Azkaban. So, my father helped her smuggle me out of that terrible prison by use of Polyjuice. My mother died in my place while I remained imprisoned in my parents’ home. My father subdued me by use of the imperious curse, and during the day had me under the cover of an invisibility cloak. All of this I am sure is public knowledge by now, and by the off chance it is not, I thought it would be best if you heard it from me first._

_As you always knew me best, it would be heartless of me to not confess to you of these things. I did kill my father and whether you hate me for that or not, I knew I had to tell you of my current status. It has been a constant regret of mine that we never got a chance to say goodbye to one another before my imprisonment, so therefore I must apologize to you once more for any and all grief I have caused._

_If you wish to contact me any further, then simply attach your responding letter to the owl. However, if you have no desire to have anything further to d with me, then you may ignore this. As my favorite aunt, I couldn’t bear you having to shoulder all the burdens my family has given you without at least apologizing._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Barty Jr._

She hadn’t realized her face was wet until several marks landed on the letter, diluting the ink. She set the paper down, digging through her apron pocket to find a handkerchief. Dabbing at her eyes, she sat in complete silence. How long had it been? Fourteen years since she’d last heard from her nephew? She could remember the last time she’d seen him plain as day. Young, exasperated with his father about something, but otherwise happy and well. She hadn’t been there at the trial, but she had been shocked nonetheless when she comforted a besotted Elowen Crouch in coming days.

Setting the letter down, she closed her eyes. Those had been some of the worst days in her life. She and Elowen had begged Barty Sr to reconsider the sentence on his own son, but her older brother had ignored them, still claiming he had no son even when she could see how much it was paining him to say so. Endora had sent him a Howler after she’d written to her twin, however, that did nothing but further damage her already frayed relationship with their brother.

Sighing, she knew what the appropriate action would be. Go to the Ministry and inform them that her nephew had contacted her. Regardless to his warnings, that’s what someone with any lick of common sense would do. Yet…

The more she thought about it, the buried anger arose. Who had been the one begging for her nephew’s retrial? Who had been the one to care for Elowen when her brother wasn’t there or Winky was too busy to? Who had been the one to notice when her sister-in-law’s health began to further deteriorate? Who was the one who had to feed Elowen when she was too weak to do it herself? Or carrying her when she was too weak to even walk. It’d been her up until the very end, when Barty Sr informed her through Owl post that Elowen had passed away during the night. Oh, how she longed to throttle him till he bled; how she wished she had her sister’s temper. But all she could do was sit there, numb with pain and sadness while her brother further closed his world away from her. He pushed her away as he did with everything and everyone he no longer had need for.

The larger owl nudged her as though it sensed her distress. Smiling bitterly, she stroked its soft damp feathers and it nuzzled its head into her calloused palm. “I don’t suppose you could help me decide what to do?” she asked, but the owl made no noise. She sighed. “I didn’t think so.”

A part of her longed to run to her nephew, find where he was and give him a good shaking for all his past misdeeds. She wanted to hit him, scream at him for all the pain he had caused not only her, but other people too. She wanted to hug him, hold him close and never let go. Much as she did when he was little, and she came to visit. He would run into her arms, his parents never far behind and just give her a smile that was brighter than sunshine.

“Hello Auntie,” he would say to her, his voice clear and sweet as any child’s could be. “I missed you! Why can’t you visit more?”

Then Barty Sr would pry him away, give him a scolding on respecting his elders and then he would give her a hug. Happier times, she mused regretfully. Before the First Wizarding war, before her brother placed his work before his family.

She stood up, pushing back from the kitchen table so loudly it woke the sleeping owl, who let out a loud hoot of annoyance. She ignored it, digging through her pockets for a quill and setting about the house for parchment paper. When she found it, she hardly noticed the Ministry owl had left through the window, apparently disgusted with her previous actions. She practically slammed the ink bottle down, jostling the ink inside and stared down at the blank paper.

Picking up her quill, she began to write.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While Aradia was never a Death Eater, I do believe that at the time, she was a Voldemort sympathizer. Kind of like how Narcissa was a Pureblood enthusiast, but never a Death Eater herself. I think HP canon has evidence to support that she was not the only one. 
> 
> It's not exactly clear on the Crouch Family tree if Barty Sr was a son or a grandson of Caspar Crouch and Charis Black. Since Charis was born in 1919 and died in 1973, I headcanon that Caspar was born in 1912, making him seven years older than her. Their marriage was arranged pretty much immediately after Charis graduated and by 1938, Barty Sr was born. It states that she and Caspar had a son and two daughters. The daughters are Endora and Aradia, twins, and neither of whom went on to have children. Thus making Dumbledore's statement in the end of Goblet of Fire after Barty's death that Fudge destroyed one of the last known Pureblood families in Britain to still be true. 
> 
> Technically while I've diverged from canon in this fic by making Barty live, his aunts have just entered their fifties and more than likely don't want children at this point. i'm having way too much fun coming with headcanons, please help
> 
> I put another little HP reference in this chapter that I hope you all recognized XD alright, bye bye for now! Hope you all are doing well and stay safe!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! Sorry for the small little hiatus there, but life kind of decided to do its own thing. Plus with the holidays and all, I got a bit busy. Not to mention job applications and all that, so it's been kind of a hectic time. I hope you all had an excellent holiday, (whichever one you celebrate). My mom had neck surgery about a week before Christmas so we've been taking care of her, another reason as to why I haven't updated.
> 
> Writer's block doesn't help either; it was a bitch trying to get this chapter out. But here it is and I'm mostly pleased about how it turned out. I tried really hard to do Lord Voldemort justice, but damn he is kind of hard to write. I hope I did alright, but we'll see. Again, thanks for reading and waiting patiently!
> 
> TW: there is a sex scene in the end. It's not extremely explicit, but I will leave the warning here in case.

“My lord, if I may be so bold to speak, were you the one who sent those dementors after the Potter boy?”

A sudden hush fell over the long and ornate table. Avery, face stark white, appeared to be rethinking his statement. As ten pairs of eyes swiveled in his direction Avery glanced nervously to the pale figure sitting at the head of the table. Lord Voldemort’s mouth curled into a sardonic smile.

“Explain to me, Avery,” Lord Voldemort began softly. “Why would I expose myself so soon after being revived?”

“My lord-”

Lord Voldemort held up a slim pale hand to cut him off. “It would seem that thirteen years has dulled your mind, Avery. Your father wouldn’t have said something so witless. But alas, it would seem in this case that a dirigible plum does just float away from the bush.”

No one at the table uttered a word, though Alecto Carrow let out a wheezy giggle at Avery, who looked as though he wished he had kept his mouth shut.

“No, I did not send the dementors after the boy,” Lord Voldemort said serenely, easing back in the dark chair. “I will finish the boy myself, face to face. I will not depend on others to do it for me.”

There was a low chorus of “Yes, my lord,” that murmured through the small gathering of Death Eaters. Barty hummed in agreement, rapping his knuckles against the wood of the table. He’d been here for an hour and already he was agitated. Previously, it had been Lucius and Yaxley commenting on the state of the ministry and the news of the dementor attack on Harry Potter. Now both men were silent, heads held high in a sort of arrogance not many in the room could match.

“Whoever sent them works for the ministry,” Yaxley pointed out the obvious, the room’s attention now solely on him. “I could begin narrowing down suspects for you, my lord?”

Lord Voldemort eyed him for a long time and did not speak. Nagini curled around her master’s chair, her dark eyes gleaming wickedly in the candlelight from above. “There will be no need for that, Yaxley,” Lord Voldemort said finally. “There are more pressing matters to attend to. Though I must impress upon your tenacity to make yourself useful to me after thirteen years of absence.”

Not sure whether to feel appreciated or chastised, Yaxley gaped like a fish out of water. Seconds later, he closed his mouth and bowed his head, utterly silent. Lord Voldemort’s eyes burned with amusement.

“We must begin rallying our allies to us,” he began firmly, gazing at each and every one of them. “The dementors will side with us, of course, when the time comes. Then we will release our friends who have been held prisoner for long enough. Narcissa, I am sure that you wish to see our dear Bellatrix once more.”

Narcissa, even as everyone’s gaze fell upon her, nodded calmly. “Of course, my lord,” she said tranquilly, unblinking as she spoke. “It has been far too long since I have seen my sister.”

Whatever Lord Voldemort was going to say next was immediately cut off by the sound of a loud door creaking open. Amidst the sneers and contemptuous glares, Severus Snape stepped into the room without so much as a glance towards the rest of them. Those dark eyes rested solely on the dark lord, whom he bowed to.

“Severus,” Lord Voldemort’s voice was so low that Barty leaned forward just to hear him better. “You are late.”

“My apologies, my lord,” Severus didn’t sound even the least bit sorry. “The Order’s meeting went longer than I expected. Plans to remove the Potter boy have changed.”

This piqued the dark lord’s interest. “They have?” Lord Voldemort questioned softly. “And when do they plan to remove the boy?”

“In three days; on the sixth,” Severus answered back evenly. “They intend to move him to the Order’s location.”

Murmurs rippled through the gathering of Death Eaters. Echoed whispers of skepticism and distrust. If Severus found any of the hostile glares sent in his direction alarming, he did not show it. He remained as passive as a blank canvas, never once showing an ounce of fear.

“How do we know if that piece of information is true?” came Nott’s deep raspy voice. Several other Death Eater’s hissed in agreement, their eyes flickering dangerously. Nott fixed Severus with a sadistic smile. “Perhaps the Order does not trust you as well you say they do.”

“The Order will trust me as long as Dumbledore does,” Severus said uninterestedly. “Whatever doubts you may have of my loyalty we can discuss here and now, Titus. However, I cannot be sure that would be a viable use of the time given.”

Barty smirked as he watched Nott’s face go pink with anger, but one look at the dark lord prevented him from saying anything. Lord Voldemort observed the scene with indifferent red eyes and even Barty couldn’t tell what was going on in his mind other than possible irritation.

“Nott,” Lord Voldemort spoke abruptly, with an air of disapproval at the edges of his voice. “While you may wish to question Severus’s loyalty, let us not be so hasty to forget that you also lost yourself for thirteen years.”

“My lord-”

Yet Lord Voldemort was not one to be cut off so easily. Those eyes flashed once more with irritation and Nott, for once, realized that he needed to be silent. The older man swallowed hard, face stark white as his hands gripped the edges of his seat nervously. Barty sneered at the older man. He had never liked Titus Nott, whom he thought was just about as dense as Avery. Even Nott’s son knew when to keep his mouth shut.

“Yet we are not here to discuss your shortcomings,” Lord Voldemort continued easily and at once, the tense atmosphere eased. “What we are here to discuss is something of greater importance.”

No one dared utter a sound. Naturally, Lord Voldemort didn’t find their silence unsettling, rather, he basked in it. His eyes flickered with hunger, a desire for something that sat just beyond his reach. Something he didn’t have last time.

“There is a prophecy regarding the boy and myself. Our friend Severus came immediately to me after hearing of a prophecy that would lead to my downfall,” Lord Voldemort paused, pale fingers dancing along the stark white wood of his wand. “A boy, born at the end of July to parents whom have defied me thrice, and he shall have a power the dark lord knows not.”

A long pause sat over the ornate dining table, with no one daring to speak. They glanced at each other, unsure of what to say until Yaxley dared to speak up. “My lord,” he began cautiously, in that deceptively sly voice capable of dissuading any suspicion off of him. “Might you be suggesting that one of us reclaim that prophecy from the Department of Mysteries?”

Lord Voldemort regarded Yaxley with a deep stare. Nagini hissed something to the dark lord and he responded back in the same language, a sort of grin on his white face. Barty wished he was able to understand the words, and as he eyed the people around him, he knew they felt the same way. Finally, Lord Voldemort gave an amused smile to Yaxley, and Barty knew at once they were all missing the joke.

“How astute of you, Yaxley, to know of my desires before I have even voiced them,” Lord Voldemort then turned his focus away to all who had gathered in the Malfoy’s dining room. “It is essential that I retrieve the prophecy, for it knows things that I do not. Unfortunately for Severus, he was interrupted before he could hear the rest.”

Once more, several pairs of eyes darted in the direction of Severus, but no one dared utter a sound. Lord Voldemort narrowed his eyes in thought. “Yes, had I known the rest of the prophecy, Harry Potter would never have weakened me to begin with. But, no matter, no matter, for no witch or wizard can vanquish me so easily.”

At the pride in his voice, several Death Eaters smiled in agreement, the tension dissipating momentarily. Lucius looked relieved and even a bit of color had returned to Narcissa’s pale cheeks. From across the table, he could feel Severus’s eyes on him. That dark gaze offered nothing, but sharp calculation covered by a thin mask of indifference. Barty shifted in his seat and did not tear his gaze away. Even if the Dark Lord wouldn’t punish the other Death Eater, he still wasn’t trustworthy. For as long as he could remember, there had always been something off about Severus’s loyalty.

Barty immediately straightened. “My lord,” he began and bowed his head reverently. “If you would allow me, I would retrieve it for you.”

Lord Voldemort’s gaze fell to him. “Bartemius,” he said softly, so soothingly that Barty could not help but feel at ease. “While I admire your tenacity, I am afraid that you are not the right candidate for the job.”

“My lord-”

But Lord Voldemort cut him off quickly. “Skilled though, as you are, have you not forgotten that you are a wanted man? If you were to find yourself in Azkaban once more, how would you serve me from behind iron bars?”

A few snickers broke through his silence, and he felt his hands curl up in spite of himself. He mentally scolded himself for his momentary lapse in foolishness. How would he serve his lord if he were behind bars? Yet, he knew he would not be behind bars for very long. The dementors did not take their food source escaping very lightly. They would take the first opportunity to turn him into a lifeless, soulless husk.

And, what would happen to her? There was no chance she would make it out alive without his protection. Which Death Eater would claim her for himself? How long would she last before one of them got carried away? He shuddered, not daring to bring himself to think about that.

“Interesting you laugh, when Bartemius’s loyalty never wavered,” Lord Voldemort cut through the laughs almost conversationally. At once, they all stopped. “Eager though his recent statement might have been, but it is admirable nonetheless. However, I will reveal that I already have a loyal servant to retrieve what I seek.”

At this, Lucius Malfoy lifted his chin up in a show of importance. “I shall not fail you, my lord,” he said with an air of superiority. “The prophecy will be yours soon.”

Barty’s hands clenched tightly under the table. It should be him retrieving the prophecy for the Dark Lord. Not Lucius, who had grown lazy and complacent these past fourteen years. Yet despite his burning desire to serve his master, Lucius was the best one for the job. The Malfoy’s were on good terms with Fudge and he knew the minister usually rebuked any accusations against the ancient Pureblood family. Though he loathed to admit, Lucius had the best chance to get the prophecy.

“My lord,” for the first time since they’d gathered over an hour ago, Selwyn’s rough voice broke through the silence. “You spoke earlier of rallying old allies to our side?”

“Fenrir Greyback, and the rest of the werewolves in his pack, will join us,” Lord Voldemort answered back easily, pale fingers still entwining around his wand. “Once I extend the invitation to them, of course. Your question however, Selwyn, brings us to our next topic of discussion. Who shall I send to convince the giants to our side?”

“Dumbledore has already sent Hagrid and the Beauxbaton’s Headmistress, Olympe Maxime to the giant colony,” Severus said suddenly, so abruptly it surprised the two Death Eaters sitting next to him. “They shall reach the colony before the end of this month.”

Lord Voldemort studied Severus with a calculating expression. “Are you sure of this, Severus?”

“He has given them gifts to give to the current Gurg,” Severus responded coolly. “Gubraithian Fire and a Goblin-made helmet.”

Murmurs erupted across the table like wildfire. Many exchanged looks of unease at the thought of the gifts Dumbledore would be sending to the giants. Barty grimaced. Everlasting fire happened to be a rather difficult spell that most witches and wizards were not able to do. His lips curled back into a sneer; of course, Dumbledore would be able to do it. What couldn’t that old man do?

“That’ll impress the giants for sure,” Nott grumbled to Avery. “Something as simple as that will win them over to Dumbledore’s army.”

Barty turned his head back to Lord Voldemort, and he had to repress the sudden urge to jump when he noticed those cold red eyes on him. He recognized the look almost immediately. It was that same look he had over a year ago when they were planning to capture Potter. In those eyes, he could see that something scrupulous was turning away in the mind of the Dark Lord.

“Bartemius,” Lord Voldemort’s voice cut through all conversation. “Since you are so eager to prove yourself to me once more, how would you like to be the one to recruit the giants?”

His mouth suddenly went dry. “My lord,” he started, momentarily at a loss for words. “You know I will always do as you wish, however, I must ask if I am the right one for the job?”

“Interesting choice of words,” Lord Voldemort mused. “It has been some time since your last assignment. I had assumed you have been rather preoccupied these past few weeks.”

Lewd laughter broke out and it took every ounce of restraint he had not to react. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Narcissa and Lucius were among the few not laughing, currently holding themselves above the antics of the others. Unsurprisingly Severus remained silent as well.

“That little slut of his must be some reward,” Barty heard Macnair whisper to Goyle. “I’ve seen photos of her from the _Dailey_ _Prophet_. Crouch must consider himself lucky to have such a pretty thing keeping his bed warm.”

If Fleur had been here to hear that, he had no doubt in mind she would have lunged across the table to strangle Macnair. What a sight that would have been too, he thought to himself as the image played across in his mind. He wanted to hex the Death Eater for even thinking of her like that, but he prided himself on having the restraint necessary to ignore the other wizard. For now, at least.

_“Whatever it is you ask of me my lord, I will do as you wish.”_

He recalled those words spoken so long ago. He meant what he said even to this day. Fealty to the one he owed everything to. Even though it hadn’t been an unbreakable vow, it might as well be considered one. Yet he had the slightest suspicion that his lord was testing him and that sent his heart straight to his stomach. Had he grown idle in these past weeks since obtaining her? So much so that his master now believed him to be less enthused about serving him?

He raised his head to meet his master’s burning gaze. “I will do as you ask, my lord,” he said as lowly and respectfully as he could. The last thing he wanted to do was disappoint his master. “I will sway the giants to our side.”

That seemed to please Lord Voldemort, for he hummed pleasantly. “Very good, Bartemius,” his sharp red gaze fell upon the table. “Now, who shall I send to assist our friend Bartemius?”

The result was a mixture of eagerness and unease. Barty scoffed at the almost pale look that crossed Crabbe’s face. While giants were more physically imposing and harder to restrain with magic, that did not make them invincible. Then again, Crabbe was a simpleton, and if Barty were to regard the Death Eater’s son, well, the dirigible plum didn’t just float away from the bush.

Honestly, if they were all going to laugh at him for perhaps being a bit overzealous, then he had every right to berate them for being afraid to do their lord’s work. He caught sight of Yaxley leaning back further in his seat with an expression eerily similar to Narcissa’s when he saw her at the Quidditch World Cup. Apparently the wizard thought of himself as too good for a job like this.

It wasn’t until Walden Macnair raised his right hand. “My Lord,” came the executioner’s oily voice. “If you would allow me, I will parley with the giants on your behalf.”

“Will you now, Macnair?” Lord Voldemort asked humorlessly. “Though perhaps you have some experience with these sort of creatures. They enjoy killing almost as much as you do. Very well, then, you will go with Bartemius.”

Macnair then turned his attention to him. “We shall have to move quickly,” he said, and then added maliciously. “I’d say we leave in three days. That should give you enough time to find someone to “look after” that little veela of yours.”

As Macnair was laughing nastily, Lord Voldemort spoke suddenly. “There is no need for Bartemius to do that, Macnair, for the veela is going with you.”

At that, Macnair stopped laughing and at the mention of _his_ veela, Barty whipped his head back around to meet his master’s in astonishment. “My lord?” he questioned reverently. “With all due respect, why would I bring her with us?”

It was a bold move, questioning the Dark Lord’s decision, but he stood by it firmly. Fortunately for him, Lord Voldemort did not appear angry at his insolence. Surprisingly, he looked amused. “It is a theory of mine,” Lord Voldemort alluded, his fingers tracing Nagini’s head as she slithered around him. “If a veela can enchant a dragon, what else can it do?”

While Macnair leered, Barty remained passive. He studied his master but could find no trace of emotion on that impassive face. Surely this wasn’t a joke; it wasn’t like Lord Voldemort to play around and especially not considering a matter of significant importance. No, this was not a jest at all. This was genuine curiosity and it left Barty with a sense of great unease.

He would bring her; he would never go against his master’s orders, but if it failed, then what? Would he be sentenced to kill her? Or would he have to watch as his master did it. That of course seemed unlikely, seeing as though Lord Voldemort had far more important things to do than to make his servant watch as he killed his reward. And she was his reward too. His permission to have her was granted by his own master.

Yet there was something else, he pondered to himself as Lord Voldemort began a new topic of discussion. Lord Voldemort would never accept his veela into the inner circle, being both a half-breed and a distraction to more than several men in this room. From the leering look on Macnair’s face, he was one of them.

Immediately, he felt on edge and made a mental note to keep a sharp eye on his fellow Death Eater.

~

He apparated near the house and wasted no time in entering the establishment. Most of the lights were on, making the countryside home seem more welcoming against the slightly humid early August air. He pushed through the front door, only to be greeted with the smells of dinner wafting through the house. Some sort of soup and vegetable with something else that did not quite match. At once, he recognized it as an overwhelmingly strong remnants of Doxycide that gave him the impression that somewhere there had been an infestation.

He sighed and hoped to Merlin that Winky had taken care of the situation. Last thing he needed was to be bit.

He hung his coat on the coat rack before making his way through the house. Though he was a bit away from the kitchen he could still hear Winky’s humming, something she had never been allowed to do when his father had been in charge. His mother, however, hadn’t minded it and would let the house-elf do it as long as his father wasn’t home.

Then he heard it, another noise coming from the parlor. A soft lilting sound with the faintest trace of an accent. A beautiful sound that immediately lifted his spirits when he got closer. The sound only his princess could make.

He found her sitting on one of the loveseats with a basket of laundry at her feet. She had sorted separate piles around her and in her hands she was folding one of the shirts that she was now claiming as hers. She had her hair pulled back today in a long braid that he yearned to run his hands through and undo. Yet he just stood there for several seconds, watching her as she sang quietly to herself in French.

“You’re ‘ere early,” Fleur eventually said briskly, though she did not look up from her task. “Did they get bored of you already?”

He ignored the insult. “Our time was short today,” he answered back, and couldn’t help but smile when she scowled. “Since when did you start doing Winky’s tasks? Did you finish all of those books upstairs or were you just wanting to play housewife?”

She immediately bristled. “I am no ‘ousewife!” she snapped and practically threw down the article of clothing in her hands. “If you really must know, I thought Winky could use some ‘elp seeing as I ‘ave nothing better to do.”

Not since he kidnapped her. She had left that part out, but it was there all the same, even if unspoken. She tossed her head back, the braid moving with her and catching the light of the room. She cast an eerily silver glow about the rest of the room. Even doing such a mundane task as laundry, she was still break takingly beautiful.

With an annoyed huff, she threw a pair of his socks into the basket with shaking hands. He narrowed his eyes. In the past few weeks, he’d noticed the tremors of her hands, though he could not recall when he started noticing them.

“Your hands,” he started, and this caught her attention for she immediately lifted her head to glare at him. He ignored this as well. “When did they start shaking?”

She glanced down at her slender hands and then immediately looked away. “No idea,” she muttered before resuming what she was doing, which was folding up one of the shirts that originally had belonged to his mother. “Not that you care, anyways.”

He frowned. While normally he found her little snide remarks endearing, her nonchalance of his own feelings was an entirely different matter altogether. He stepped further into the room until he was near the loveseat, taking a spot next to her. He noticed her flinch at the close proximity, but he paid no mind. The material she was holding slipped through her long slim fingers as he took her hands into his.

“I could get someone to look at them,” he thought back to his Aunt Aradia, who had sent her reply back only a few days ago. She didn’t know about Fleur, for he wasn’t quite sure how she would react to it, but he knew she would look into it if he asked her. “It’s more than likely something that can be fixed.”

“There is no need for that,” she attempted to pull her hands from him, but his grip remained firm. She sighed irritably. “’Onestly, if you should go to an ‘ealer about anything, it should be for your tongue.”

Ouch. He refrained from giving her any sort of reaction other than indifference. In truth, he couldn’t remember when that certain tick of his started. When he was younger, probably, and it certainly annoyed the hell out of his father.

Her hands though, he looked back down at them and wondered. Could it have happened when he bound her that first time? In his excitement he got carried away and did not notice the dried blood on her wrists until he awoke later that morning.

It wasn’t that he regretted taking her, but to cause her pain had never been an objective. He had acknowledged of course that if she continued to resist him, he would have to take action, but only as a last resort. He meant what he said. She would come to love him over time, when she finally accepted her situation. In the long run, when the war started, she would come to realize she was better off with him.

Of course, and he recognized this determination, that she wasn’t going to accept this right away. But he enjoyed a challenge, as he mentioned to Narcissa on those streets a while back ago.

“Your hands are beautiful,” his thumb brushed over her knuckles tenderly. “Even when they are shaking.”

“You can’t be serious,” she admonished, still tugging her hands from him. “Being romantic doesn’t suit you.”

Barty rolled his eyes. “There’s no crime in telling the woman I love that she’s beautiful,” he then grinned, proceeding to move a stray piece of her hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. “And I do mean it, _ma princesse_.”

She didn’t move as his hand moved from her cheek to rest on her slim shoulder. Her skin was cool compared to the heat from outside and he inched closer to her. “My light,” he murmured to her, his other hand grasping her chin to meet his gaze. “My sunshine, my princess.”

“Non,” she protested, but he ignored it and pressed his lips against her soft pliable ones. Unlike when he first kissed her, she did not push him away or try to fight him off. Rarely did she ever initiate anything, so he was not surprised when she did not kiss back. At least, not right away. It always did to take some convincing on her part but in the end, she would inevitably give in.

He assumed she was protesting against the nicknames. “Bastard”, was usually the one she gave to him and normally she said it in French, but it did not bother him. She was still adjusting, and he was more pleased with the fact that she did not fight him as much as she had a few weeks ago.

He briefly wondered if he should mention to her that they would be going on a little trip soon, but that thought soon melted away when he felt her move. Albeit hesitantly, she leaned into him and closed her eyes. Her dainty hands reached up to lightly rest on his chest, not pushing him away and he grinned in victory. It was a small victory and while he knew there would be other battles, he savored this one triumph. She would win some battles, naturally, but he would win their war of wills.

She was plotting something, he knew that very well. The sorting hat did consider putting him in Ravenclaw all those years ago. Contrary to popular belief he didn’t just love her for her ethereal beauty. Behind her good looks there was a mind, a sharp mind that most chose not to see, but he saw her. Every time he looked at her, there was a challenge burning in those sapphire blue eyes. A determined glare that insisted that she was going to win and somehow get away from him.

Ah, but they couldn’t have that, now could they? He pulled her closer to him so that she was practically sitting in his lap and for a moment, he could see her hesitation. Close proximity to him still unnerved her, but that was no matter. His hands lowered down her body to her sides, running along her soft curves. With that same grin, he deepened the kiss and again, she hesitated. Yet eventually, she yielded to him.

If she ever did manage to become free of him, would she be able to return to her old life? He slid his hands up her body to gently rest at the nape of her neck where he rubbed the skin tenderly. She shivered involuntarily at the sensitive area, pressing herself more against him as he continued his ministrations. If she did manage to escape he would have to relocate, but that was more of a nuisance than an actual threat. He had dragged her unwilling form into his world, and whether she liked it or not, there was a part of it in her now as well.

He didn’t regret his decisions. He embraced the darkness like a second skin, becoming limitless and fearless in the process. Lord Voldemort taught him and the others that they should not be afraid of dark magic; that it was their natural right as wizards to rule over those inferior. Even though she was a half-breed and unworthy in the eyes of his lord, he still wanted her. Just for himself and no one else. She would realize, overtime, that this was the best place for her.

He released her mouth, hands releasing her neck so he could kiss at the flesh he had been previously massaging. “Please,” she began, in a voice that shook as his tongue brushed over her skin. Her hands now pressed more firmly against his chest. “That’s enough, I need to get this done.”

The laundry could wait, he thought dismissively. “It’s Winky’s job to do the housework,” he murmured against her shoulder, sliding the fabric of her shirt down to have better access. “Don’t kill the mood, _ma princesse_.”

She made a noise of displeasure. “And become a bird in a cage?” she said darkly, attempting to untangle herself from him. “That is not what people do to the ones they are in love with.”

He released her shoulder, taking her wrists into his hands to pin them at her sides. “A bird in a cage? Interesting analogy, dear,” he stroke the base of her wrist with his thumb while she glared hotly at him. He paid no mind. “Yet this “cage” you speak of is keeping you safe. I’m just keeping you safe from what is to come.”

If anything, her glare only intensified. “And what of my family?” she asked heatedly. “If you love me, you would not be keeping me from them.”

“You shouldn’t worry about them so much. They think you are dead, after all,” a flicker of grief passed through her shining eyes, and he had to remind himself that no everyone had dysfunctional families. It would take her a long time to let them go. “The war will begin. I am keeping you safe from the fight that is going to occur. You’re protected because of me.”

“And my family? What will ‘appen to them?” a note of panic laced the edge of her voice and she struggled momentarily against his hold.

“If they are smart, they will submit to Lord Voldemort. When he eventually reaches France, of course.”

She paused, and he noticed the wave of doubt cross her eyes. Like her, her family would not so easily submit themselves to those above them. While he found her resistance to be a welcome challenge, the Dark Lord would not.

“I understand this is difficult for you,” Barty sighed, leaning his body forward to push her back gently into the loveseat. She squirmed beneath him, attempting to pull away but his grip on her wrists would not allow her. “But I’ve got to keep you safe.”

“Safe?” she retorted scornfully. “Keeping me in this prison is your idea of safe?”

“This is hardly a prison,” he raised his eyes. “I’m not keeping you under the imperious curse or under an invisibility cloak. You have free reign of the house, which is more than what I had under my father’s imprisonment.”

She remained silent, tearing her gaze away from his. He kissed her once more, adjusting his position so that his thighs rested between her. He released her wrists, her hands coming up again to rest on his chest. He could scarcely feel them there, as they neither relaxed nor pushed him away.

“Not ‘ere,” she whispered, eyeing the doorway he came from. “Winky could come in at any moment.”

“She’s too busy in the kitchen to notice,” he hushed her, moving down to the other side of her neck. Her breath hitched and her hands tightened on his shirt as his mouth found the sensitive spot. “Besides, isn’t that the exciting part? Nearly getting caught?”

She glared at him but for once, she said nothing. No scathing retort or snide comment. He grinned. “And you snuck off with that Davies boy to snog him, didn’t you?”

At this, a light pink flush decorated her cheeks, but she stubbornly remained silent. “Some might enjoy the comforts a gilded cage,” he said to her, and truth be told, he was hoping to obtain some reaction from her. He grinned as her eyes flickered towards him in what could only be thinly concealed disdain. How very like her. He rested face against her forehead, their breaths mingling with each other. He murmured against her lips. “I can keep you safe here, darling. From the war and from the eyes of unworthy men.”

In a swift moment, he unzipped his trousers to pull himself out and reached under her skirt to push her knickers down below her knees. Her breathing intensified as he pushed his way in, kissing her as he allowed her time to adjust. She let out a small gasp, now grasping his forearm firmly to keep steady. He dropped his head back down, just below her ear to flick the skin behind the lobe with his tongue. She tightened deliciously around him.

“If it makes you feel better,” he said as he began to move, slowly as to not cause her discomfort. “You can just think of it as my embrace of you.”

Her eyes snapped to his, but whatever she wanted to say was lost when he ground into her, deep and swift. His pubic bone rubbed against her clit with each thrust and while he breathed heavily into her neck, her tiny needy noises that she tried to conceal as she writhed against him only spiked his desire for her.

He gripped her hard, pulling her body closer to him. He needed her as he panted into her neck, careful as to not undo her now messy braid. His light, his love, his desire in life.

Try as she might to fly away, he would always find her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to express that what Barty is do is still not entirely consensual. I will mark it for now as dubious consent because while Fleur is not entirely consenting with this, she is playing her own game as well. In any situation, I do not condone Barty's actions and honestly right now I kind of want to yeet him to the moon. Seriously, this man pretty much feels no regret for what he's done. While I don't want to portray him as downright insane, he still has radically different qualms about what's okay and for me, that would terrify me more. We'll leave the insanity for Bellatrix when we get there and oh boy I can't wait to start writing her, but again, we still have a ways to go before we get there.
> 
> Fleur is not going to be too happy when she finds out she gets to go on a roadtrip with two Death Eaters. Macnair is a creep and if I were Fleur, I wouldn't want to be in the same room as him. I have a lot planned for the next few chapters and hooo boy is Fleur going to have a great time. We will finally get to see some more of the tags start coming into play. 
> 
> Also I apologize if the formats a bit weird at times. Sometimes when I copy past from my word document, I think a few of the letters get left out and it's been a time making sure everything is where it should be. If you see something, please let me know so I can fix it! Again as a remind, chapter lengths are going to vary depending on what's going on, so bear with me. 
> 
> Well, I think that's all for now. Thanks for reading and leave a comment! I enjoy reading what you guys have to say!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter kind of wrote itself, and I'm pretty happy with the way it turned out. Barty's still a real creep, but that's not really going to change anytime soon. I can't give away much right now without spoiling the chapter. It's a long one, almost as long as the first and I had to cut out a few things because it might have gone on forever if I didn't.
> 
> And once more, thanks for all the kudos, comments and bookmarks thus far! I'm glad to see people are reading this (even if the pairing is super cracky).
> 
> TW: There is a rape scene towards the end, so be aware of that. It's more fucked up than the one from chapter three.

Fleur stayed in the bathtub for what seemed like hours. Knees drawn into her chest, she rested her chin on the caps, watching as the bubbles slowly disappeared and merged with the once hot water. Her hair hung like a curtain beside her, obstructing most of her view of the bathroom. She paid no mind to how her fingers had pruned. None of that seemed to matter anyways.

Her body ached from the previous night’s activities. Apparently having sex in the parlor wasn’t enough for Barty. As soon as dinner had ended, he whisked her away to the place she hated most in this prison: their bedroom. She admitted, though bitterly, that she trembled when he laid her out. If he even cared, he had paid no mind and proceeded to take her anyway.

She shuddered, pressing her hand up to her neck. She could still feel the remnants of how he panted; the flick his tongue against her skin. The pressure of his stronger, leaner body on top of hers as he pushed his way inside. No matter how hard she scrubbed, she could not remove the imprints he left behind.

She could only be glad about the condoms Narcissa had given her. Of course, the witch had been anything but pleased when she’d given them to her. Narcissa always seemed to be disgusted by something, but what exactly that was Fleur didn’t know. Whether it was the fact she had to go out and buy condoms or the fact she had to be in the house talking to her. Fleur put up with it, though. Whatever option did she have? The alternative was getting pregnant from that bastard.

She shuddered once more at the thought and hugged her body even closer. Her eyes burned, but no tears came. What good would crying serve her? It wouldn’t change the fact she’d been kidnapped by a maniac. It wouldn’t change the fact that she’d been cursed and raped. Or that said maniac was in love with her. Crying wouldn’t solve a single damn thing.

She glanced towards the heavily curtained window, where the late summer sun cast its mid-morning rays. She closed her eyes and thought. At this time a year ago, she would have been out with Gabrielle, going to the park or the little café’s that lined her home village. Or she would have been at home, playing music so loudly her maman would be knocking loudly against her door. She would have been painting Gabrielle’s nails or writing letters to her Beauxbaton’s friends. Now that world seemed like a distant memory.

Question was, would she be able to go back to it?

Unwillingly, she pulled herself out of the tub, the water dripping from her hair. She was wringing the water out of her hair, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Finger shaped bruises sat on her hips, purple and sensitive to her touch. She didn’t need to close her eyes to still feel the imprints of his hands holding her so tightly as he slammed into her body. Her lower body carried a dull ache with each movement she made. Now that her ankle was healed, there was no need for him to hold back, despite her protests.

She snorted in disgust, taking her bathrobe and wrapping it tightly around herself. She had no desire to look at her ruined body anymore.

She hurried back to _their_ bedroom, brush in hand as she scoured the dresser for clothes. She pulled each item out with shaking hands, practically tossing them on the dresser. She balanced from foot to foot as she put on each sock and while she looked silly doing so, the alternative would be to sit on the bed and she absolutely refused to do that. The faster she dressed, the less time she would have to spend in the room.

For a few hours she could be free to roam to wherever she chose. Mainly to the library and if she got bored of reading, she would go find Winky and assist her with whatever she needed help with. She ran the brush through her silver locks absentmindedly. Not that it really mattered; no matter what she did it would never look funny. One of the perks of having veela hair.

So then, why did she have the strong urge to cut it off?

There’d be no point in doing that, she sighed to herself. Within a month it would be back to her waist again, looking as though it’d always been there. She used to adore her hair and loved the attention it received. Now his fingertips had massaged their way in, pulling and stroking each thick strand as though it were his alone to touch.

She buttoned up the white blouse and after a quick once over, she darted from the room as fast as she could. So fast that she nearly ran into Winky on her way out. She caught herself immediately, hand placed out to steady herself against the wall.

“Sorry!” Fleur said softly, the house-elf readjusting the items she was carrying. She smiled at her, hoping it was reassuring enough. “I did not mean to startle you, Winky.”

“Winky is not startled at all! Winky should have watched where she was going,” Winky bowed her head. “Winky hopes that Mistress will forgive her.”

“There is no need to apologize; the fault is mine,” she eyed the house-elf serenely. “What are you doing right now? Do you need ‘elp with anything?”

“Oh no, Winky has got everything under control,” Winky said quickly, brown eyes now avoiding her gaze. “Winky is just doing some things Master Barty has requested of her. Winky is just doing her normal duties.”

Fleur frowned. Those were Barty’s clothes she was carrying in her thin arms, the very same clothes that she knew she had put away yesterday. Something was definitely not right. “Are those dirty again?” she asked carefully. “If you want, I can wash them for you.”

“Winky is just putting them away, just like Master Barty asked Winky to,” Winky said hurriedly. “Mistress need not worry herself over Winky. Winky is glad to do as Master Barty asks.”

“It is no problem; I can ‘elp-”

“Mistress is very kind, but Winky does not need help,” Winky cut her off, and if she noticed the surprised expression on Fleur’s face, she paid no mind. “Winky can manage the tasks Master Barty has set for her.”

Winky then scampered off in the opposite direction, hurrying down the hall until she disappeared around the corner. Fleur stood there, with the odd feeling that she was missing out on something, but for the life of her could not figure out what it was. Only that it left her with the sense that it wasn’t something good.

What did Winky need with the clothes they’d just washed yesterday? Obviously they couldn’t be dirty already; that didn’t make any sense, but what else could it be? Fleur leaned against the wall, lips pursed tightly together. She didn’t bother chasing after the house-elf. Whatever it was that Winky knew, she wasn’t going to tell her. Barty probably ordered to remain silent. Despite being on the house-elf’s good side, she knew perfectly well that Winky’s loyalty, for now, was to Barty, not her.

Fleur took off down the hall, slowly descending down the stairs until she reached the bottom. She remembered her first night here, the man she hated most carrying her imperioused form up the old staircase and into what she now considered her most abhorrent memory. She had never known evil quite so intimately until now, where she was forced to deal with it every day.

In some respects, she considered herself lucky. She contemplated this as she made her way into the parlor, purposefully avoiding the loveseat. She was alive and whole, for the most part. She wasn’t beaten or starved. She was given clean clothes and access to a bathroom. Yet that didn’t mask the urge to breakdown and cry at her limited freedom.

She sat down, noticing her shaking hands. It wasn’t so much of a shake rather than a slight tremor, and she couldn’t quite recall when it started. His concern for them was laughable, though. When he had taken her hands into his, there was a moment where she wanted to strike him across the face and yell that she wouldn’t have this problem if he hadn’t of raped her.

Fleur gave an uneasy sigh and glanced over at the large grandfather clock. It was almost eleven, and Narcissa had made arrangements with Barty that she would visit her on this date. If Barty found it odd that his cousin was coming over once a week to speak to her, he didn’t say. A part of her wondered if he even cared, but she had to will herself to not think about that.

A sudden knocking on the door broke her thoughts. By the time she made it into the foyer, Winky had appeared by the front door almost instantly, opening it and bowing lowly once she saw who it was.

“Lady Malfoy,” the house-elf said respectfully. “Winky’s mistress awaits you in the parlor. May Winky take your robes?”

Without a word, Narcissa removed her black traveling robes. As per normal she was dressed elegantly, in deep emerald green and silver. The Malfoy family crest hung around her slender neck and her blonde hair lay in a braid behind her. Even though she wore an expression of vague disinterest, she still looked intimidating.

Fleur felt her hands flex by her side in an unusual show of nervousness as Narcissa’s shrewd gaze fell upon her. She nodded towards the older woman. “Good morning,” she greeted, trying not to sound agitated. “’Ow are you, Madam Malfoy?”

She wasn’t sure if she should call her Narcissa yet; that seemed a bit to unformal for them, so she stuck with the lady’s title. Narcissa simply brushed past her, eyes narrowed as she observed the parlor with disgust. Fleur rolled her eyes at the lack of common courtesy, but she figured she should be used to this by now.

Narcissa turned to her, raising an eyebrow and then gave a scoff. “You let him have his way with you in the parlor? You simply let him do whatever he wants with you?” she asked disdainfully.

Taken a back, she now wished she had learned occlumency during her time at Beauxbaton’s. “I did not let ‘im do anything,” she said tersely. “And there wasn’t really anything I could do to stop ‘im. It is not like I ‘ave a wand right now.”

In truth, it was embarrassing letting him have his way with her on the loveseat. She did not protest it as much as she wanted to, despite knowing that Winky could have appeared at any moment. Her plan certainly wasn’t short term, and she had begrudgingly made peace with that information.

“No class,” Narcissa muttered, shaking her head. “And somehow I’m related to him.”

“You don’t ‘ave to ‘elp ‘im,” she offered critically. “’E killed ‘is own father and who knows ‘ow many others? I certainly would not accept ‘im into my family.”

Narcissa fixed her with a cool expression. “He and I are both members of the Black family, however distantly. And I will remind you I have my own reasons for helping him, and all of them revolve around you.”

Fleur turned her face away, letting her hair hide her expression. It was never her intention to become the object of focus for so many. Barty, Narcissa, and possibly others she didn’t even know about. The thought was not comforting. If Narcissa had any sympathy for her, she didn’t express it. Yet having something of an ally was better than nothing, she thought bitterly. Narcissa was just about as Slytherin as the rest of her family.

“Merci for the condoms,” she said bluntly, taking in smug satisfaction at the way Narcissa’s eye twitched. “Though I do not believe ‘e really likes to use them.”

Narcissa’s eye twitched again, and her red painted lips pursed so tightly she looked as though she were sucking on a lemon. She took a seat down on the couch furthest away from the loveseat, eyeing it every so often contemptuously. “Most of us purebloods do not believe in their use. They are a muggle invention and there are other more suitable ways for a witch to prevent herself from getting pregnant.”

Various potions, and not all of them were labeled for pregnancy prevention. She’d heard rumors that a classmate of hers used one on herself and ended up in the infirmary wing for a long time due to the nasty side effects. If there was one thing the non-magique were more advanced in, it was their use of preventative measures. Or so her maman told her when she was roughly about thirteen years old and going through the early stages of adolescence.

“If you want an example of those who could have been more careful, look at the Weasleys,” Narcissa sneered. “Seven children; four of them still in school. I bet that eyesore of a home of theirs has only one bedroom.”

Fleur immediately thought of the family. Other than their bright red hair and freckled complexions, she didn’t know much about them other than there was pair of mischievous twins, a boy around Harry’s age that grew red in the face every time she came near him and a girl who very clearly had a crush on Harry. Their robes weren’t the nicest, nor were their books, but they walked around with an air of pride that she didn’t often see in people who didn’t have a lot. She thought Narcissa was being a bit rude, but she opted to keep her mouth shut.

Narcissa sighed. “But I am not here today to discuss those blood traitors. I’m afraid I cannot stay for long today for I promised Draco I’d take him to Diagon alley today.”

Instantly, that same feeling of dread returned. “What did you want to tell me?” Fleur asked, trying to keep the desperation out of her voice. “Something ‘as ‘appened. I can feel it.”

Narcissa raised a pale eyebrow. “So, you’re a seer now, are you? I highly doubt that,” the woman scoffed, but that disparaging tone did not reach her eyes. “But indeed, something has happened. The Dark Lord has called upon Barty.”

Fleur’s jaw dropped at the sudden news. “What do you mean?” she asked, doing her best to keep the hope out of her voice. “Is ‘e going somewhere?”

“To the giant colony, somewhere in east Europe I believe,” came Narcissa’s vague answer. “He leaves in two days.”

Fleur immediately thought of Winky, running around with Barty’s clothes in such a hurried manner. She was packing his things for what could be a very long mission. She didn’t know whether to sigh in relief or clap her hands with glee. The giant colony was very far from the little countryside manor; she knew the colony had to be somewhere in the Ural Mountains and that would send him far, far from her. She didn’t stop the grin from spreading across her face. The first real smile she had made in a long time, possibly, and all because that bastard wouldn’t be around to hover over her like some dark shadow.

Fleur collapsed herself in a chair, a wave of exhaustion washing over her. However long it would take him to reach the colony and subsequently return, she would still have a break. She could rest knowing that she wouldn’t be interrupted. She wouldn’t have to be on guard every time he entered the home.

Before she knew it, a tear slipped down her face. Then two more tears until she had to start wiping at her eyes furiously to keep from having an emotional meltdown. “Sorry,” she said sheepishly to Narcissa, who watched her with little to no expression. Fleur felt a flush cross her cheeks. “Sorry, I do not know what came over me.”

There was a happy bubbling feeling in her chest, threatening to break through with each tear she wiped away. All at once, there were so many things she wanted to do. Cry, laugh, and just revel in the fact that she had freedom. Albeit a small amount of freedom, but that would leave her with uninterrupted time to think of other ways to escape. Barty probably told Winky to keep an eye on her; to make sure that she didn’t escape, but she would find a way. She had too.

“You did not let me finish. He is going on a mission, and you’re going with him.”

And like a carnival balloon, all those positive feelings in her chest burst and floated away.

Fleur froze. “What?” she asked slowly. Perhaps she did not hear Narcissa correctly, or….

“Lord Voldemort has decided that it is time to see how useful you can be,” if Narcissa felt anything about those orders, Fleur could not see it. “You managed to temporarily distract a dragon with your veela charm. Now, how will you fare against a giant?”

She was glad she was sitting in the chair, otherwise it was possible her knees would have given out. A new wave came crashing all around her, and her lungs seized in mid-breath. She could not even think to breathe at the thought of coming near giants. Half giants were one thing; she adored her headmistress Madam Maxime, but she had heard the stories about the giants from the first war. The carnage they wrought in the name of the Dark Lord. She had never seen a real giant before, and it paralyzed her whole body to even think of being near one.

“But…I am only a quarter veela,” she half-whispered, looking down to notice that the tremors had intensified. “I wasn’t even sure it would work against a dragon. I can’t possibly-”

“I am afraid there is no defying the Dark Lord once an order has been given out,” Narcissa said coldly. “Unless you have a death wish, that is.”

Fleur gripped the arms of the chair with stark white hands. Her stomach rolled uneasily at the thought of facing the Dark Lord. “I am no Death Eater!” she protested, eyes wide as she stared at Narcissa. “I won’t go and do ‘is bidding!”

“Then you will die,” Narcissa replied just as coldly as before. “And here I thought you were trying to survive.”

“I am!” she snapped back as the hairs on the back her neck and arms rose. The churning in her stomach didn’t settle as she forced her body to remember how to breathe. “But I will not serve the Dark Lord! I know what ‘e would do to people like me! Why in Merlin and Morgana’s name would I even do anything in ‘is name?”

“Listen to me,” Narcissa said so sharply it cut across Fleur like a slap to the face. When she looked in Narcissa’s eyes, she could see it. The hardened shell that she had spent years building. The same hardness that kept her alive during the first war; that kept her and her family together. “Adapting and surviving go hand in hand. If you succeed in convincing the giants, think of what will happen. You will have shown that you are useful; that you are not just my cousin’s bed warmer. Yes, there is no certainty that your veela magic will have any sway, but what if it does?”

“There is no guarantee that it will!”

“I know,” Narcissa continued, ignoring the interruption. “But if you want to survive and live to see another day, then you will do as he wishes. Barty can only protect you so much if you don’t follow orders. You will have to throw all the veela magic you can muster at the giants if you even hope to get out of there in one piece.”

“I don’t even want ‘im near me,” Fleur snarled. “I will never love ‘im.”

“Love has nothing to do with it,” Narcissa sighed, crossing her hands in her lap. “While your current efforts are admirable, you are going to have to utilize your skills even harder. Show my cousin how much more useful you can be. Use all your natural magic to make those giants worship you. You are a clever girl; show him how clever you can be. If you can utilize your skills to their full potential, then you will have a greater chance of surviving. And speaking of my cousin, you are going to need him if you have any value over your life.”

Fleur frowned. “Why?”

“Barty will not be the only Death Eater going,” and with this, Narcissa looked her dead in the eye. “Walden Macnair will be his partner for the mission. I cannot stress to you the importance of not being alone in a room with him. Macnair enjoys the thrill of the kill or so to speak. He executes beasts for the ministry but back during he first war, he delighted in killing mud bloods and blood traitors.”

“You think ‘e will try to kill me?”

“Oh, Merlin no, he won’t try to do that,” Narcissa shook her head. “Barty’s made claim on you, and unless Macnair were to defeat him in a duel, which is unlikely, then he has right to mark you as his. You would be dead within a week if Macnair claimed you as his. But then again, he’s not known for playing by the rules. If he decides to try to pursue you, the best advice I can offer is run to Barty.”

Fleur’s mouth went dry as though it were full of chalk. “I will never run to ‘im for ‘e is no better than this Macnair,” she wrapped her arms around herself. “I can’t do this; this is too much…”

“There is nothing you can do,” Narcissa offered, though not sympathetically. “Nothing you can do except for accept the situation for what it is.”

The witch stood up then, smoothing down her dress and fixing Fleur passively. “I must go now. I would stay and chat longer, but I see you need some time to mull things over,” she eyed her carefully. “If I can offer you one last piece of advice: don’t do anything you’ll regret later.”

Narcissa then turned on her heel, her shoes clacking against the hardwood floor. As Fleur cradled herself in the chair, she heard Narcissa call for Winky, demanding that the house-elf retrieve her robes for her. She barely registered Winky’s response or the rustling of clothes until she heard the front door open and then subsequently close.

She was alone once more.

Her lower lip trembled, but no tears came. A few sobs burst past her lips as her heart started to accelerate faster. All of a sudden, she felt cold. The same coldness she felt during that first night. It ate away at her insides, leaving her with this hollow feeling she could not shake off. She slid out of the chair, arms still wrapped around herself.

If there was one place that she felt safe in, it was the library. The warmly lit room with various worlds she could escape to. Barty never bothered her in there and Winky only did if she really had to. In there, she could have momentary peace.

Her stomach lurched violently, bile rising up her esophagus. Fleur covered her mouth with her hand, sprinting with shaking legs towards the nearest lavatory. She kneeled, hunched over the toilet, dry heaving for several seconds before bile forced its way out. This time tears came slipping down her face, hot and stinging her eyes as she continued to wretch.

“Mistress, are you alright? Should Winky go fetch Master Barty?”

Winky’s voice sounded from outside the hastily locked door. Fleur dry heaved once more, coughing at the foul taste in her mouth. “N…non,” she managed to choke out, clearing her throat. “Please, Winky, don’t do that. I just need a moment.”

“Is Mistress sick? Winky will get a pepper up potion if Mistress likes.”

“Non, Winky,” she said again, pushing hair to the side as her stomach lurched again. “Please Winky, just leave me alone.”

“But-”

“ _Fous-moi la paix_!” she snapped, and upon remembering that Winky did not speak French, she sighed raggedly. “Leave me alone, Winky.”

Winky, for once, said nothing. Fleur listened to her retreating footsteps until she could hold it in no longer. She heaved once more, sputtering and crying as she did. Minutes of dry heaving later, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, flushing the remains down and scooting back to the corner. Her fingers carded through her hair as she rocked against the wall in a back n forth motion. Her heart slammed against her chest, the same panicky jitters grasping tightly at her lungs

She couldn’t do what the Dark Lord asked of her. There was no way that she could charm a whole colony of giants. It was impossible! Why not use an actual veela to do that? Though he would have to go through a lot. Her grandmother had taken her to speak with other veelas and all of them detested the Dark Lord. None of them would ever work for him; not if they had a choice.

Fleur didn’t have a death wish, as Narcissa suggested earlier. But then, she didn’t really have any other choices. It was either do or die, and Fleur didn’t really want to die. Not when she had so much to do; not when she had people who needed her. If she died, who would be there to look after her parents as they continued to get older? Who would look after Gabrielle, who was still so young?

Fleur wiped at her eyes once more. There were still so many things she wanted to do. She wanted to travel the world, both muggle and magical. She wanted to further develop her water painting talent, reread through her arithmancy books and marvel how much she loved numbers. She wanted to get a job and improve her English. She wanted to find the one she was meant to be with, get married and start a family. She wanted her children to grow up in a world without the threat of Lord Voldemort.

But more than anything, she wanted to be free. Break away from this prison and reunite with her family. Throw herself into the safe and familiar arms of her papa, who would hold her so steady while her maman kissed and stroked her head. She would hold Gabrielle so closely and never let her out of her sight. Go back to the world she knew, the one she belonged in, and slowly remove his festering dark magic from her.

“ _Once I’m dead, I won’t even be able to remember them_ ,” the thought suddenly occurred to them, the tears now ceasing to fall. “ _If I die ‘ere, that would be like giving up. And I can’t give up; I won’t give up. There is still so much I want to do and see._ ”

The tightened grip on her lungs diminished, and she took in more ragged breaths. Her heart still pounded fiercely, but she noticed no longer painfully. “I told myself I would find a way to return to them,” she said to herself quietly. “That I would never give up. I will fight for my freedom if I ‘ave to.”

She wiped her reddening eyes again, leaning further against the wall. “I can’t let ‘im win,” she muttered, staring fixedly at her trembling hands. “If ‘e thinks that I will do as the Dark Lord wishes, then ‘e is mistaken. I will fight ‘im with every fiber of my being.”

She stood on shaking legs towards the sink, turning on the faucet to remove the taste of bile from her mouth. She greedily drank the water, reveling in its cooling sensation against her dry throat. She took a deep breath in an attempt to calm her already frayed nerves. She had no idea when Barty would be back, hours or even minutes from now, depending on what he was doing, so she had to be ready.

She unlocked the door, quietly making her way to he library. She could hear Winky moving about, probably packing more things for their trip, but if the house-elf heard her moving about, she paid no mind.

Her safe haven welcomed her like an old friend. She browsed through the books, settling on one about magical beasts and other creatures. She bit her lip at the sudden idea that sprang into her mind. If she could find something, anything, that suggested that veela magic had no impact on giants, then perhaps she could use that to her advantage.

If not, the book was solid enough she could throw it at him. Brain damage was often permanent, wasn’t it?

~

At some point she dozed off, the book sliding from her hands and onto her lap. The opening of the front door awoke her with a start and the book fell loudly from her lap. She grimaced. The book said nothing about veelas and giants together, but a part of her had been expecting that. Still, she gripped the book tightly when she heard Winky speak in a rather subdued tone. No doubt telling him what had happened earlier.

She stood quickly, so fast that for a moment the world spun. His footsteps were coming up the stairs, hurriedly, and she made herself ready. Book prepared, her body trembled with anticipation for what was to come. The door opened. He stepped inside, opening his mouth to speak, probably expecting to see her reading.

But he didn’t anticipate the book being thrown at him.

It hit him square in the face, the spine cracking against his nose, and he let out a shout of pain. Droplets of blood fell from his nose, sinking into the white carpet, and he staggered backwards clutching his nose. She dashed forward, looping around him as she sprinted as fast as her legs could carry her. She stumbled down the stairs as she skipped multiple steps as the front door became ever so closer to her reach.

Was it a gamble, throwing a book at him and earning his ire? Probably, and there was chance it wouldn’t work, but she wasn’t going to serve Lord Voldemort without a fight. She had laid her cards openly on the table. At this moment, he knew that she knew what they had in store for her. But she would not go down without a fight. She would fight to survive if she had to, for no one would make her submit so easily.

Even without a wand, she would not be underestimated so easily.

Escaping from the house at the moment would be futile. He knew he area better than her and would find her easily. Death Eater territory and all, who knew how many would be out there, knowing who she was.

She wasn’t half surprised when his hand reached out to grab her hair. He yanked none too gently on her silvery locks, so much so that she yelped in pain and stumbled backwards into his lean chest. Droplets of his blood landed on her face, dripping down his face like raindrops as she struggled in disgust.

“That wasn’t very nice, _ma princesse_ ,” he whispered, but she could hear the anger lingering in his tone. “How did you find out?”

“What does it matter?” she snarled, fighting his iron grip on her shoulders. “I will never serve the Dark Lord! Keep me in this prison all you like, I will not do it!”

He pulled her more tightly against him. “You don’t have a choice,” he sneered, lips brushing her ear. “If I had it my way, you would not be going. There’s no telling if your magic will work on giants, and as much as I am willing to work with Macnair, he is not known for being predictable. But my lord has commanded me, and I will do as he says without fuss.”

“’E is not my lord!” she hissed. “And I will not do as ‘e says!”

He dodged as she attempted to kick him, but then momentarily released her. She rounded upon him, managing to get one good strike to his face in before he grabbed her by the wrists. She took delight in the imprint of her hand against his cheek, red and painful, but then he squeezed them tightly. So tightly she could feel her bones grind together painfully. She howled in fury, attempting to break his hold as he looked upon her with thinly concealed rage.

“You need to calm down,” he ground out between clenched teeth. “I didn’t want to have to do this, but you brought this upon yourself.”

Without warning he threw her over his shoulder, like a wayward child. She protested, pushing against him, pulling so hard that strands of his hair fell out when she grabbed at him. He grunted in pain but proceeded to carry her up the stairs.

“Winky,” he called out, and the house-elf appeared at the bottom of the stairs, watching the scene with wide eyes. “Winky, do not disturb us. I have to teach Fleur here a lesson on respecting those above her. If you disturb us, I will make you iron your hands.”

Winky bowed. “Winky understands, Master Barty.”

“Winky!” she called towards the house-elf, hands still clutched in Barty’s hair. “Winky, please, ‘elp me!”

But Winky just fixed her with a sad look. “Master Barty knows best,” she said solemnly, though tears welled in those doe brown eyes. “Master Barty just wants to take care of Mistress. Mistress will learn to see that soon.”

Then she was gone, disappearing with a snap of her fingers. Fleur, frozen from her previous vexation, lessened her grip on his hair. Barty’s grip on her tightened as he kicked down the nearest door. A room she knew well, and a whimper of agitation slipped past her lips.

Her safe haven.

He tossed her down none too gently, and she landed on the ground with a painful thud. He took out his wand, holding it to his nose and uttered a spell. “ _Episkey_!” he cast out, grimacing as his nose reset. He wiped the remaining blood from his face, before fixing her with undivided attention.

“You’re an ungrateful little bitch, aren’t you?” he sneered, stepping closer to her while she scooted backwards. “Here I am, trying to keep you safe and sound, and you do this to me?”

She said nothing, for fear had prevented her voice from speaking out. He grinned maliciously, lighting his eyes with an almost manic look. “I told you before, remember? Now I put up with some of your antics because I don’t want you to become a broken doll. But I have my limits, darling, and let’s just say you’ve pushed them.”

He kneeled down to her eye level, grasping her chin with his long fingers. Her breath hitched and his grin widened. “You think I am cruel, but I have never hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you, but you’ve left me no choice. You think I am heartless? Well, I can show you what heartless is. I didn’t want to have to do this, but you have left me with no choice.”

He brought his wand out, and she snapped. “Non!” she cried, struggling against his hold. “You cannot do this!”

“Darling, darling, _darling_ ,” he smiled cruelly, wand tracing from her cheek to her mouth. Slipping it past her lips, and she couldn’t stop the whimper that escaped her at the sudden intrusion. “I still love you, but you need to know what you did was wrong. How can I protect you if you keep resisting me, hm?”

She choked around the wand. “Please,” she was beginning to struggle again, and he sighed wearily as he removed his wand from her mouth. “Please, don’t-”

“ _Imperio_!”

She went limp as her mind become an endless blank canvas. Whatever panicking thoughts she had were buried under a cloud of weightlessness. She laid there before him, eyes looking, but not really seeing. He pressed his body against hers, laying her out fully on the floor. She didn’t fight him; she didn’t want to. With no independent thoughts of her own, she waited for him to slip his own in.

“You’ve been a bad girl, haven’t you?” he asked against her cheek, leaving a wet trail where his tongue flicked out.

“Yes,” she replied, and it made sense. Why else would he be upset with her if she hadn’t been bad? 

“And you feel bad about that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she said, and she truly was sorry. She lowered her eyes in shame. “I am sorry.”

“I know you are,” he kissed her deeply, the light catching his eyes like dark fire. “And of course, I will forgive you.”

Relief flooded in her chest. She didn’t want him to be mad at her, and he must have known that, for he smiled. “But you’ve got to show me how sorry you are. Can you do that? Can you show me how sorry you are? You’ll take your punishment like the brave girl you are, won’t you my little champion?”

“Yes,” and she meant it. She had been bad, so she deserved whatever punishment he deemed worthy.

“Good girl,” he crooned, stroking her face. She leaned into his hand. She liked it; it felt nice against her warm skin. He let out a little groan. “Get on your knees.”

He removed himself from her, and obediently she got on her knees, awaiting his next order patiently. He unzipped his trousers, lowering them enough to pull himself out. He stroked himself a few times, grinning. “You want to make it up to me, don’t you?” he asked.

“Yes,” she nodded eagerly. Anything to prove she wasn’t a bad girl.

“Then you can start by putting your mouth to good use,” he watched with dark eyes as she scooted towards him, her slender hands reaching up to rest on his thighs. His cock brushed against her cheek, poking her, but it did not phase her. “That’s it,” his right hand threaded through her hair, giving her head a little push forward. The tip of his cock brushed against her mouth, nudging against the corners. “Go on now, give it a little kiss hello.”

She kissed the crown of his cock, her tongue flicking the head a little as her lips closed around it. Both of his hands tightened in her hair. “Good girl, showing me some appreciation,” he leered, and she agreed wholeheartedly. “That’s it, keep going.”

Her tongue dipped into the slit, smearing the bead of precum that had developed. It tasted strange on her tongue, but she ignored it. His happiness was far more important. She licked a strip down the length, and he must have liked that, for he groaned loudly. She did it again, more eagerly than before. Anything to make him happy.

“That’s it,” he took his cock his hand, smearing it against her lips. “Open up now, take it in. Open up-fuck, you’re good at this, aren’t you? That veela side of you is good for taking dick, isn’t it?”

She couldn’t answer him very well with his heavy cock in her mouth, but she soared at the sudden praise given. He grasped at the back of her skull, pressing himself further into her mouth and forcing her to take all of him in. She took a hold of the base as it nudged against the back of her throat. His hips moved erratically, her nose brushing against his pubic hair with each gyration.

“So good,” he praised huskily, saliva beginning to leak out of her mouth as she remembered to breathe through her nose in order not to gag, willing her throat to relax. “Taking my cock all the way, you’re made for this aren’t you? My pretty little bitch.”

She still couldn’t answer him, but he sounded happy and his happiness was all that mattered right now. She wanted to please him.

“Fuuuccckkk,” he drawled out, gripping her hair so hard he might have torn a few strands out. Not that she cared. His dilated eyes stared down at her as she sucked harder, her nimble fingers reaching up to teasingly caress his balls. “Not gonna last much longer…Open your mouth…”

He pulled out abruptly, giving two more strokes before white hot liquid spurted out, Barty giving a little jerk as his orgasm washed over. It landed on her forehead, on her cheeks and across her nose in a sort of diagonal pattern. Her mouth sat open, the white spurts landing there on her tongue, some of it hitting the back of her throat and her teeth. It seemed to go on forever until he shuddered, the last of it oozing from his slit.

“Good girl,” he breathed heavily, smearing the remnants of his seed across her face. “You enjoyed pleasing me there, didn’t you?”

“Yes, very much,” she answered, and she smiled at his obvious pleasure.

“You’re going to get undressed now,” he ordered her softly, chest still heaving. “And then you’re going to lay down on the floor.”

That seemed sensible, she thought. She stood up slowly, very much aware of his stare as she unbuttoned her shirt, letting it fall to the floor. She unhooked her brassiere, letting it join the shirt. Her nipples hardened at coolness of the room, his tongue flicking out as his eyes burned black with desire. As soon as she slid out of her remaining clothes, she laid on the ground.

“Spread your legs,” he ordered her, and she did so, exposing herself to him. He kneeled down between her spread legs, hands gripping her waist. “This might hurt, but you’re not going to resist me. You’re not going to fight me. This is your punishment and you’re going to take it like a champ, aren’t you?”

She nodded, watching as he stroked himself a few times, hardening again. She laid there, waiting for him. Under the surface, there was a voice trying to scream at her, but she could not hear it. Almost as if it were muffled. Yet she could feel something akin to alarm bubbling beneath the surface, but it was drowned out by the numbness that over took her mind.

It hurt a lot, she noted with a wince of pain. He pushed his way in, immediately beginning to move inside her without giving her any time to adjust. No preparation at all, but since she had done bad, this was the price she had to pay. His cock burned inside her, stabbing at her insides as he set a rather languid pace, not in a hurry to get it over with. Drawing out the punishment she deserved, she acknowledged somberly. He panted wetly into her neck, his grip digging into the bruises still on her hips.

It was hard to tell how long this had been going on. Minutes, perhaps, but she shifted uncomfortably. Her skin chaffed against the carpet as he picked up speed, burning her all the way from her shoulder blades to the end of her spine. She did not dare fight him, though tears burned her eyes as he pounded into her roughly.

“Good girl, taking your punishment so well,” he grunted, even while she let out noise of pain. She didn’t fight him; her arms remained limply at her side while he pounded into her. “My little champion, taking me all in.”

He lifted his head, his gaze meeting hers. “You’ve been behaving so well, darling,” he purred. “I can tell you’re very sorry about what you’ve done.”

She nodded, whimpering at the sharp pain of his cock hitting her cervix. He paused suddenly, staring down at her. “Don’t cry,” he whispered, wiping a stray tear that had slipped down her face. “It’ll be alright, _ma princesse_ , you don’t need to feel bad. All is forgiven.”

She sighed in relief, blinking the tears out of her eyes as best she could. He smiled softly. “You like the feel of me inside you, don’t you? It gets you all nice and wet, doesn’t it?”

He stopped moving, the pain slowly residing and his grip on her waist lessened. She clenched around him and he groaned, enjoying the feel of her. His fingers easily found her clit, his thumb pressing down on it firmly. “That’s it,” he whispered, finding the sensitive spot on her neck and suckling on it. She let out a breathy little moan, the pleasure of his tongue caressing her flesh and the press of his thumb against her clit sparking a warmth within her chest that leisurely spread down through her body.

“There you are,” he breathed, still not moving. He nuzzled at her jaw, lips tracing upwards to behind her ear. She quivered at the spike of arousal that filled her as his free hand found one of her nipples. He massaged it with his thumb and forefinger, switching to the other every few seconds.

“That’s it, good girl, getting all wet for me. This is all you need, isn’t it?” he asked, his tongue licking up a trail to her neck and jaw. He resumed his movements within her, slow and finally, finally, allowing her time to adjust to him. “Need to have my cock in you. Filling you up with my pure seed. You crave it, don’t you? You need it like the wonton little slut you are.”

She moaned in pleasure as his cock brushed up against something inside her. She wrapped her legs around his waist tighter, the slide of him easier now due to how slick she was getting. He purred. “Don’t be shy,” he ordered. “You’re normally so quiet during our moments together. Tell me you like it, let me hear it. Beg me.”

“Please,” she moaned, louder than she’d ever done before. “Please, I love it. I love ‘aving you inside me! I need you! Give me more!”

“More, beg me more. Beg me to fuck you.”

“Please, fuck me,” she moaned as he picked up the pace, continuing to hit that spot in her that made her see stars. She wrapped her arms around him, hands gripping the back of his neck. “Please, Barty, please fuck me!”

His reedy pants against her face intensified as she moaned even louder. It felt good, knowing that she was pleasing him. That he’d truly forgiven her and wanted her to feel just as good as him. She wanted to be his good girl and make him happy. “My veela,” he whispered against her cheek, grinding deep into her as his thumb continued to rub her clit in that delicious back and forth movement. “Kiss me,” he asked her breathlessly. “You’re such a good girl, darling, do this for me please.”

She reached up to cup his face, kissing him with all the passion she could bring. She vaguely registered the sound of their skins colliding together, slapping against one another wetly. How she moaned into his mouth, their tongues meeting in a familiar dance she knew well. He tasted of something forbidden; something dark and bittersweet. She hoped he didn’t mind the taste of his own spunk on her, though from how his teeth clacked against hers, that didn’t appear to be the case.

Pleasure flowed through her body as her orgasm hit her. It pooled through the bottom of her stomach and down through her legs. She moaned, clenching around him as he continued to fuck into her. He removed his thumb from her clit so he could grip her firmly as he rolled his hips into hers more sporadically than before.

“Let me hear you,” he grunted, massaging the skin along her hips. “Tell me you need me.”

“I need you,” she mewled as he kept brushing up against her walls. “Please Barty, I need you!”

“Merlin,” he hissed, suddenly slowing down to grind into her deeper. Every plane of her body was pressed up against his. The beating of his heart, the heaving of his chest she could feel as though it were in her own body. His tongue flicked out, licking a new trail up her face. “You love having me inside you, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she responded with a smile, because it was true. He made her feel good, just as she had done for him. “I love ‘aving you inside me.”

“Tell me you love me,” he murmured against her cheek. “You’ve never said it before, whereas I’ve said it. I love you, _ma princesse_ , don’t you love me back?”

“I love you,” she answered back with a loud moan, caught in the throes of pleasure as he kept hitting that part of her just right, rotating his hips to angle better as she called out. “ _Je t’aime_ , Barty, _je t’aime_!”

She came again, her second orgasm more intense than the one previously. Her walls pulsed around him, and she gripped his hair tightly as she rolled through it. Something warm and wet slipped down her thighs and over his. He mouthed at her neck, working through her orgasm as his thrusts became more frantic. “That’s it baby, you’re doing so well,” he rolled into her, not minding the mess she just made on the carpet. “Gonna come in you now, darling. Gonna come and…there it is…”

For the second time that evening, he climaxed again. As she lay there, body still tingling from her own release, she was vaguely aware of the spurting of his seed into her. He rocked into her, riding out his own release with panting breaths. His arms braced on either side of her, chest heaving as she stared up at him with heavy lidded eyes.

He brushed the hair out of her face as his cock began to soften. He pulled himself out and she mourned the loss of him inside her. He grinned, continuing to play with her hair. “ _Je t’aime ma princesse_ ,” he said lowly. “I hate having to use the curse on you, but I only do it because it was for the best. You understand, don’t you?”

“I understand,” she answered back plainly. “I did wrong. I should not ‘ave ‘urt you.”

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “It’s okay, I know you’re just scared. We’re all a bit nervous the first time our lord sends us out on a mission.”

They laid there on the floor, catching their breath and basking in the post coital glow. She was already sore, both from their recent activity and from the ones from the previous night. She didn’t mind, though. If he was happy, then she would be to.

After a few more minutes, he stood with a loud sigh, adjusting his trousers and zipping them back up. He glanced down to her relaxed form. “You can get dressed now,” he ordered calmly. “There’s one more thing I need you to do.”

She dressed quickly, and as she finished buttoning the last button of her shirt, he spoke once more. “I’m going to keep you under this curse for a bit longer,” he said, sounding a tiny bit regretful. She frowned. He shouldn’t feel bad when she was the one who did wrong. “We leave the day after tomorrow. Until then, I need you to behave. Can you do that, Fleur?”

“I’ll be a good girl for you,” she answered automatically. “I will behave.”

He smiled. “I need you to remain in our room until it’s time to leave. You can do what you need to do to take care of yourself, but you are not allowed to leave the room. Winky will check up on you; make sure you have something to eat and such, but you will not try to leave. Alright?”

She nodded because it made perfect sense. With that same smile, he offered his hand out towards her. “Shall we, darling? There’s still some things I need to do. You don’t want to be in the way now, do you?”

She shook her head. “Non,” was her reply and he wrapped his arm around her, leaning in to kiss her head.

“That’s my girl.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Barty is basically channeling his inner Kilgrave. It's been a while since I've seen a villain that truly makes my skin crawl. Obviously Fleur cannot give proper consent (not that she would) in this situation. I can only imagine some of the things the imperious curse can do that wasn't even mentioned in canon. Death Eaters are pretty fucked up.
> 
> The poor girl is terrified. She's not a Death Eater, but she essentially has no choice other than to do what Voldemort wants her to. Do or die basically and our girl here wants to live. It's only going to get more messed up from here on out. I have a lot in store and somethings might change. Even if she was acting impulsively in this chapter, and it might have put her plan at risk, she's still going to do whatever it takes to survive and hopefully, find a way to escape.
> 
> That's basically it for now. I would love to hear your thoughts so don't be afraid to comment! See you all next time!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter isn't as long as all the others; it's actually quite short, but it is rather important in setting up future chapters. The next one will be longer, I swear. 
> 
> Thanks once again for all the support so far! This stuff isn't easy to write and oh boy is there a storm coming. I can't promise to update every week, but I'll try. I was going to update last Friday, but work has been extremely busy lately. I hope you all understand. 
> 
> Okay, I'm done talking now. Happy reading!

Fleur stayed in the room just as he asked her to, sitting so still on the bed as though she were a graveyard statue. Night changed to day, but she still did not move. She sat there, hands in her lap and staring unblinkingly at the wall in front of her. “Be a good girl,” she would remind herself like a mantra. “Be a good girl for Barty and he won’t have to punish you.”

She only moved to go use the bathroom, or when Winky came in every now and then to check on her. She would bring her food, and Fleur ate it without complaint. Winky would smile at her, though whenever she did, it was always sad. Why, though? Winky had done nothing wrong. She had followed her master’s orders, just as Fleur was doing right now. She should be happy, for she was making his life easier.

That evening Barty returned, looking tired but glad to see her. She smiled at him but did not move. She knew her back was hurting from sitting so rigidly and her hands and feet had gone numb from little use, but she did not dare disobey him. His hands found her face, caressing the soft flesh that was still warm from the bath Winky made her take earlier.

“Good girl,” he praised, and she leaned into his touch. He smiled. “We have a long journey ahead of us. It’s time to go to sleep, _ma princesse_.”

That sounded reasonable, so she complied. She went from sitting on the bed to lying under the covers in a matter of seconds. She laid there, staring up at the ceiling while he undressed into something more relaxed for sleep time wear. He crawled into the bed beside her, wrapping his longer arms around her in comforting embrace that she melted into. One arm wrapped possessively around her waist while the other toyed with her hair. It felt nice, she thought contently. It felt nice knowing that she was making him happy.

She fell into a dreamless sleep, where the blank canvas that was her mind stretched on for miles. She floated in oblivion, relaxed and completely unaware of the world around her. The muffled voice kept trying to wake her, but she ignored it. It was nice not having a thought of her own. To relinquish control to him.

“Time to get up,” someone was shaking her. She opened her eyes to a dimly lit room. The early morning sun hadn’t quite risen just yet, but it was light enough to see without squinting her eyes. Barty stood before her, already dressed, and offering his hand out. “Come now, love, we’ve got to get going.”

She took his hand, rubbing the sleep from her eyes as he handed her clothes. A deep blue jumper and a pair of dark corduroy trousers. Most of their clothes had been removed from the dresser, leaving only a few articles of clothing behind. Barty was right; the journey would be long. Who knew how long it would take?

She pulled her hair back into a low ponytail as he motioned for her to follow him. None of the lights in the hallway were on, she noticed dismissively as they journeyed to the foyer. The whole place was eerily quiet, as though no life existed at all. Except that wasn’t entirely true. At the bottom of the stairs, Winky stood there waiting, a white silken handbag clutched in her thin hands.

“Winky has everything ready for your trip, Master Barty,” the house-elf presented the bag to him. “Winky wishes Master a safe journey.”

“You look after the place while we’re gone, Winky,” Barty ordered her calmly. “I expect the house to be in one piece by the time we get back.”

Winky bowed. “Winky will take care of the home,” she said respectfully. “Just as Master Barty asks Winky to do.”

He grunted in approval before turning to Fleur. “You hold onto this,” he placed the small back in her outstretched hands, his own lingering for a split second. “Don’t lose it, now, it’s very important.”

“I won’t lose it,” she said automatically, but she meant every word.

He smiled. “I know you won’t.”

They walked out of the house to the edge of the property, where he then looped his arm into hers. He apparated, with her along at his side as the scenery changed. The familiar landscape changed. No longer could she see the tall oak trees that hid the house from the view of unwanted guests or hear the babbling sounds of the lake nearby.

The world stopped spinning, and Fleur gripped her knees momentarily to keep from heaving. The world before her was so dark she had to grip Barty’s arm to keep herself from falling over. In the distance she could hear something drip, signaling that there was water nearby. She took a deep breath, immediately wrinkling her nose. Decay, she noted. Something wet and rotting filled her nose and she coughed at the putrid smell. She looked around at the boarded-up windows, cracks in the wall revealing tiny bits of light to seep through, but not enough to lighten the place.

“An old muggle crack house,” Barty informed her when she looked at him in confusion. “Macnair should be here, somewhere.”

While she wasn’t entirely sure what crack was, she didn’t waste time thinking about it. She followed him closely, mindful to watch her step against the old rotting floorboards. The place creaked with each step they took, a low haunting sound that made her feel like at any moment she would fall into the floor. A few times Barty kicked whatever was in front of him, the Lumos spell from his wand their only source of light.

Fleur shivered in spite of of being wrapped in a jumper. It was still early morning, she reminded herself. From beyond the crack house walls, she could hear the sounds from outside. Cars being started; the opening and closing of doors. The rolling pressure of buses as they honked towards those in the way. They had to be in a city, she thought. Though with the limited information in front of her, she had no idea of which one she was in.

“Well, well, and here I thought you were never going to show.”

Even with her mind blank, fear crept in. The room became a blaze with light, so blinding white she had to shield her eyes momentarily. She recognized a man’s voice, waspish, but deep enough she immediately felt wary. Her eyes now somewhat adjusted to the light, she took in the scene. A man in black robes stood about ten feet away. Taller than Barty, and broader in the shoulders. He had a thin, black mustache that moved upwards as he grinned at them.

“Macnair,” Barty greeted curtly. “You managed to secure a portkey?”

“’Course I did,” Macnair snorted arrogantly. “Called in an old favor from someone in the Portkey office. This one will take us into Russia. We’ll have to take the backroads from then on, because we don’t have the Russian Ministry of Magic’s permission to have a portkey. Don’t want to catch too much attention, do we?”

Barty’s jaw tightened. “Of course not,” and she felt his grip on her arm become firmer. “Shall we get going?”

“Not before you introduce me to your little friend here,” she tried not to shiver as his cold gray eyes landed on her. The hairs on the back of her neck rose, but she did not look away. He grinned at Barty. “Come on, it’s going to be close quarters for the next few weeks. I might as well know her name,” he turned to Fleur with that same predatory grin. “What’s your name, pretty?”

She looked towards Barty, who gave a sigh. She took that as a sign of confirmation. “Fleur,” she nodded towards the other Death Eater. “Fleur Delacour.”

Macnair’s grin widened lecherously. “She must be good at keeping your bed warm every night if you’ve kept her alive this long. Keep her under the imperious curse often, hm? It always was your specialty, if memory serves me right.”

Barty tensed beside her. “I don’t use it unless I have to,” he looked to her with something akin to disappointment. She lowered her face in shame at the reminder of her wrongfulness. “We had a slight disagreement, that’s all. No lasting harm done or anything. I’ll remove it off of her once we get land.”

“Oh, but why do that? She looks so docile standing there. Like a lost dragonling.”

Barty eyed the other Death Eater irritably. “If you must know, I prefer her when she’s actually herself. I enjoy her company, hard as it is to believe sometimes,” he added quickly. “And if she starts getting a bit too feisty, I can just use it on her again, but I doubt I’ll have to do that.”

“If you say so,” Macnair shrugged. He turned to something on the floor, a bucket of all things, worn away by rust. “It’s timed to go off in about 20 seconds so it’s best we grab onto it.”

“Take my hand, love.” Barty commanded her and she took his hand, grasping it firmly.

The bucket began to shake, teetering around as though someone were teasing it on the other side. Macnair, with Barty grasping his arm, stuck his foot into the bucket. No one let out any noise as they suddenly were squeezed through what felt like a small hole. The wind howled around them, their shoulders bumping into each other, but she registered her hand still firmly grasped by Barty’s, unrelenting in its hold as the seconds flew by.

The spinning stopped abruptly as though the bucket had just spit them out. They landed on the ground with a thud, her hand still with his and he still gripping Macnair’s forearm. The dank smell of the crack house was gone, now replaced by the earthy scent of trees and dirt, the summer breeze tickling her hair. It certainly was an upgrade from the crack house.

“We should get moving,” Macnair said, adjusting his robes. “No doubt the Russian ministry has its spies everywhere.”

“One moment,” Barty said, taking out his wand. His attention was on her, and she waited patiently for a command. He smiled. “You know, I will kind of miss you like this. Not fighting me every step of the way and all. But you’ll one day be like this without me having to curse you.”

Then all at once, the blank space in her mind was filled. All the rage and despair that had been buried, squashed under the curse came flooding back into her. Her body trembled with white hot fury, her fingernails digging into her skin as she clenched them hard against her side. It all came flooding back to her, that night in the library. Her touching him, kissing him as though she meant it. The obscene image played over and over again. The phantom memory of his touch on her skin and his mouth on hers. Her skin burned, all too aware of him.

“ _Je t’aime_ , _Barty, Je t’aime_!”

In that moment, a myriad of things came into her mind. The blinding white rage howled at her to claw every organ out from his body. Use his own wand on him and make him feel the same pain and degradation she felt. It burned in her chest like wildfire. Yet it was not the only emotion demanding to be on top. Sadness wailed, wanting her to break down as though she were a small helpless child. Humiliation wanted her to hide away in shame, to never speak about the incident for as long as she could. Doubt wondered if survival was even worth it. How would she know if and when he was going to use it?

Her feet moved towards him, body shaking with the violent urge to claw out his eyes. He watched her shrewdly, wand still gripped in his dexterous hands. He had the nerve to smile at her, looking on her as though she were a misbehaving child. “I know you’re upset with me, darling,” and there was that stupid little pet name, condescending as always. “But I did what I had to do. You attacked me, so I had to defend myself.”

“Bastard,” she spat at him, but decided against taking another step. She did not have the upper hand here. Two wizards against as a wandless witch were not good odds. “YOU RAPED ME!” she shouted at him, completely ignoring the other Death Eater who watched the scene with thinly concealed amusement. “If you even think that I will ever forgive you for this-”

“You hurt me,” he countered, nonplussed by her rage. “So, I supposed we’re even.”

“All I did was throw a book at you,” she scoffed in disgust. “So, what if it broke your nose? You 'ad no right in using that curse on me!”

“I had every right,” he snapped at her, eyes alight with a sort of anger she had not seen until a few days ago. Immediately, she was set on edge. He took a step forward, only stopping when she stepped back. Under any other circumstance she would have stood her ground, but self-preservation would have its way. He took a deep breath, in an attempt to calm himself before continuing on. “You were hysterical, but the Dark Lord will have his way. How would it have looked for us if you had refused? He would have killed you! He wouldn’t hesitate to if you had defied him. And if he did, do you think I would stop? Be able to stop him, even if I wanted to?”

She thought of the Potters, killed so brutally for not stepping aside so he could kill Harry. He refused to listen to them, so why would he listen to Barty? Despite him being one of his most loyal followers, he was a force unto himself. Something beyond mortal men, or so it seemed.

She turned on her heel, teeth grinding together. Rage still coursed through her body, burning hotly in her veins. A dirt road stood before her flanked by tall maple trees, their branches dancing in the summer breeze that brushed her hair. The rage simmered down. Not extinguished by any means but cooling down enough to let pragmatism come through.

She could run, but where would she run to? She knew it would be stupid to run. They would catch her easily no matter how fast she would run and even if did manage to outwit them, where would she run to? She didn’t speak Russian; nor did she know exactly where to find their ministry. If they knew they were here, then she was already a fugitive. And a fugitive witch without a wand on the run was suicidal at best.

Her chest tightened, forming a knot in her throat. No matter what outcome, she was screwed. She turned back around to see Barty’s dark eyes looking intently into hers. In an instant, he knew, and he grinned victoriously.

“There’s nowhere to run to, dear,” he said eloquently. “Now come along, we really should get going.”

A loud smack echoed through the quiet forest. Her hand, shaking, stung from the impact of connecting with his face. Macnair gaped at them, mouth opened in shock. An angry reddened mark appeared on his left cheek. Barty blinked once, then twice, bringing a hand up to his face.

She half expected him to hit her back, or perhaps use a curse on her. The latter seemed more likely; he’d never physically struck her apart from tying her wrists to the bed posts during her first night together.

She however did not expect him to throw his head back and laugh. A deranged laugh that even caused Macnair to stare at him bewilderingly. He laughed as though hitting him had been funny. She immediately went on guard.

“Crouch,” Macnair said lowly. “Are you not going to discipline her? You’d let yourself be pushed around by this half-breed-”

But Barty stopped him abruptly, addressing his coworker but his focus solely on her. “I find it ironic, Macnair, that’s all,” he grinned. “The first thing I did after the Dark Lord freed me from the imperious curse, I punched my father.”

Macnair did not look convinced. “So? If she were mine, I would not let her treat me as such.”

“I expected no less from her,” Barty commented, reaching out to her as she backed away. “And this is why she is my veela, not yours.”

She glared hotly at him, a thousand thoughts running across her mind. So much that she wanted to say summed up in one look. Barty sighed, the message well received. “But you are right, we should get moving,” he extended his hand out to her. “Come now, darling. What other option aside from running do you have?”

She sneered, but he had her there. Running would accomplish nothing aside from possible injury. If she was going to survive this journey, she needed to be at full strength. She took a step towards him, eyeing the hand in front of her. She wanted nothing more than to slap it away, but in the end, she opted against that.

Instead, she took it. Her nails digging into his skin as she gripped him tightly. Not enough to draw blood, but she took satisfaction in the way he grimaced. The anger was still there, but now compressed underneath the will of self-preservation. From the way he eyed her, he knew it too. He would have this victory, but if he thought that she would let it go this easily, he was mistaken.

The three of them, her hand still in his, walked down the dirt road and into the unknown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter wasn't all too eventful either, unfortunately. Again, it's more of a set up chapter, so I hope you won't mind too terribly. 
> 
> Barty probably weirds Macnair out. Oil and water, but they work together when they need to. I highly doubt they would ever be friends and throw a veela in the mix, and tensions will run high. I have a lot planned for the three of them so the next few chapters will be interesting, to say the least.
> 
> Fleur might know what crack is, but then again, it's also pretty much a muggle thing. I can imagine that she's heard of it, but being primarily raised in the wizarding community, there's a chance she may not know. 
> 
> Until next time, enjoy your week and let me know what you think so far!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again lovelies! Thanks for waiting so patiently; I kind of hit some writer's block for a moment, but I'm back. Things have also been kind of busy, so I hope you don't mind too much. I've been growing restless with all this self quarantine. I know it's for the best, but my family is driving me up the wall.
> 
> So yeah, where we last left off Fleur and her companions are in Russia. I forgot to mention that the last sentence of the previous chapter, I had "Into the Unknown" playing in my head the whole time XD 
> 
> No warnings needed for this chapter!

They’d been walking for hours. By the time the sun began sinking in the west, Fleur was exhausted. Her feet ached, her heels rubbed raw from all the steps and her face flushed pink from the heat. All she wanted to do was find a bed and fall asleep. Close her eyes and disappear.

Of course, it didn’t do much to complain. She had to bite back all the grievances she wanted to say and instead focus on something else. Problem was, there wasn’t a whole lot to focus on. Trees were only entertaining for so long and so were the small villages they passed through. No one paid them any mind, naturally, due to the charms the two wizards had placed over them.

They’d stopped a few times for breaks. They would sit for a while, no one saying anything while she stared straight ahead, plucking listlessly at the soft grass. She ate a quick lunch, doing her best to ignore the not so subtle glances Macnair sent her every so often. His stare was uncomfortable, to say the least. It raised the hairs on the back of her neck. It had the same effect as though she were wearing a corset, affecting her breathing, constricted and shallow. Every glance sent her way betrayed his intentions and none of them were noble.

Her insides froze at the recent memory. She wrapped her arms around herself, as though that would protect her. Yet over her on her left was her only source of protection. Staring straight ahead, his face revealing nothing. Except, that wasn’t entirely true. She could tell his shoulders had drooped, and his dark eyes seemed even darker than before. Clearly she wasn’t the only one who was tired.

Even Macnair didn’t seem as energetic as before.

“There’s a wizard village up ahead,” he said abruptly, pointing up ahead. “It’s been enchanted to look like a ghost village to deter muggles. We’ll rest there for the night.”

“Fine.” Barty replied with a stiff nod of his head.

And, as per usual, no one asked Fleur her thoughts on the matter. Still, the thought of rest and food beat walking any further.

Another mile, and the ghost village appeared before them. For a moment, she was painfully reminded of her own village. The stark difference being this village was entirely non-magique free. They passed a shop carrying various potions, and another one that sold second-hand books. So similar to her home, but not quite. The Russian language threw her off, as did the sound of the people walking past them. It buzzed in her ears, and all at once, she felt more alone than before. Despite being in the company of her traveling companions, they did not stand on equal ground.

If she closed her eyes and thought of home, she could picture it easily. Walking down the streets in twilight, arm in arm with her best friends Sabine and Manon. Without a care in the world as they window shopped. She almost smiled at the thought, but the warmth that spread through her chest brought a painful knot in her throat.

Pushing those thoughts away, she noticed that most ignored them as they walked past. Except, she glanced around warily, that wasn’t entirely true. They walked past a group of young boys, barely thirteen and at once, they swiveled their heads in her direction. Mouths a gap and speaking so fast she had no idea what they were saying.

It wasn’t just the teenage boys, either. Older men, some older than Barty eyed her as she walked. One man sitting on the steps of a broom shop whistled as they passed. She refused to make eye contact, but she just knew he was leering. She ignored it; what else could she do? By paying him attention she’d be giving him what he wanted. Following the advice by her mother and grandmother, she focused her attention on the path ahead.

" _I_ _t will do you no good to react,_ " her maman would tell her sternly. " _Unless they make an advance towards you, then keep on to where you are going_."

A pressure on her arm told her that someone else, however, did not wish to ignore the man. Barty gripped her arm in his tightly. The old man, she noticed out of the corner of her eye, stopped laughing when Barty sent him a look. A warning.

“The inn’s just ahead,” Macnair pointed out, hands shoved in the pockets of his robes. “We picked the perfect time to come. A storm will pass over tonight.”

She glanced up. The day had been beautiful, if not for the heat, but it was almost cool now. She scanned her eyes upwards. Dark clouds were gathering in the west, moving slowly towards the village. Suddenly, she was glad that they chose to stay in the village. Last thing she wanted to do was camp out in the rain. At least, that’s what she was assuming they were going to do.

The inn was nestled between the two streets, serving as a turning point where the street divided into two paths on the left and right. It was small, about two stories high and untouched by time. Smoke rose from the chimney, and people milled about outside chatting. Their eyes followed the three of them as they made their way towards the inn. Suspicious, she noted. That’s how their gazes appeared.

She practically snorted. Of course, they would be suspicious. It wasn’t just her veela heritage, though that didn’t help, it was the fact she was traveling with two men. They were probably wondering what a pretty woman like her was doing with two men. Dangerous looking men, she added to herself as she glanced between Barty and Macnair.

They dressed differently as well; she took in the state of their traveling robes. Clearly British made compared to the style that most of the other people were wearing. She saw one man nudge the woman he was with, saying something to her that made her laugh, her eyes fixated on Fleur.

In spite of herself, she tore her eyes away in embarrassment. She didn’t know why, but she had the feeling that whatever was so funny, it was probably about her.

Macnair opened the door to the inn, gesturing for her to enter. She entered through the doorway with a frown, once again ignoring the unease that crawled through her. Barty’s grip on her arm released, but she still felt him hover over her, like a shadow. For once, and she would only admit this to herself, she was glad he was there.

That didn’t stop her from hating him, though.

The inn was homely, but not plain. Time had performed irreversible deeds upon the once proud and distinguished inn, but despite its flaws, a fire burned steadily in the hearth and the smell of food made her stomach growl. The floorboards creaked underneath her feet, and despite the warm summer heat outside, there was a noticeable draft that hung in the air. In the dimly lit room, she stood there with her arms folded at her side. They, the foreigners, were now the object of scrutiny for the few people in the inn.

She stared straight ahead, trying to ignore the way everyone’s eyes lingered on her. Especially the rough looking men with their smoke-filled pipes and heavy dark eyes. They spoke to each other quickly, laughing loudly and eying her figure appreciatively. 

“Vot do you want?” she turned her head at the sound of a rough voice speaking in broken English. At the bar, an older man stared at them with narrowed shrewd blue eyes. He was tall, but sturdy with the way his strong arms flexed as he leaned on the counter. “Vell? You speak English, no?”

“We need room for the night,” Barty spoke, his arm still linked into hers. “You have any available?”

“Possibly,” the man replied with his eyes still narrowed. “Vot are two English wizards and a veela doing so far from England?”

“Traveling,” Barty said easily, giving a polite yet warning smile. “We saw a storm coming and sought out shelter.”

The man grunted, but she wasn’t quite sure he believed Barty’s words. Still, he waved them over to sit down at one of the rustic round tables. They sat down and three cups of strong hot tea were sent their way by the man with a gesture of his wand. She stared at it, watching the steam rise from the black tea with vague interest. None of them spoke, and she took comfort in the way the silence caressed her skin like a cool breeze, smoothing her soul and taking away her jagged edges. She nursed the cup of tea in her hands, inhaling its relaxing scent.

She took a sip, allowing the hints of mint and thyme to dance over her taste buds. It wasn’t the kind of tea she was used to drinking. It brought her back to her grandmother’s home, having tea with her on Sunday evenings when she wasn’t in school. The chamomile tea tasting like crisp apples, light and airy in its sweetness. Nothing like the strong Ceylon and Earl Greys the Brits were so fond of.

“We should reach the colony soon, in about two weeks if the weather is in our favor,” Barty glanced towards the windows, at the now ominously black sky. Few people were in the streets now, taking cover in the various shops from the upcoming storm. Fleur wished she could be with them.

“That oaf Hagrid and his companion will be there before we will,” Macnair grumbled, eyeing the tea contemptuously. He took a sip before making a face of disgust and pushed it aside. “The current Gurg knows of Dumbledore. That bumbling git might be able to convince him to join their side,” he added over his shoulder, currently flagging down someone with a curt wave of his hand.

“We’ll deal with that when the time comes,” Barty said easily. “And Hagrid isn’t the one we should be worried about.”

“Oh, right,” Macnair nodded in agreement, a hand rubbing his chin in thought. “It’s _that woman_ we should watch out for.”

Fleur frowned. Woman? What woman? One glance up towards Barty and he immediately averted her gaze, glaring sharply at his companion. “That’s enough for now; we’ll discuss more in the morning.” He said with an air of conclusiveness.

Once more, she was kept in the dark, but as frustrated as she was about this, she remained passive. Her fingers tapped quietly against the ceramic cup, the only thing reeling in the frustration.

A woman appeared in front of their table, wringing her hands in her worn apron. She was not overly old, but her forehead was wrinkled by many peaks and trenches caused by years of consistent frowning. Her entire face seemed drained of any signs of joy or amusement, instead her heavy eyes told a sign of regular disdain.

Her sharp gray gaze landed on Fleur, and she immediately felt at unease once again. She wasn’t a genius, but it didn’t take one to figure out why the woman was so disapproving. She would be suspicious to if she saw a young girl traveling with two older men.

The woman placed a plate of dark rye bread in front of them. “How many rooms vill you be needing?” she asked, her voice deep and rich.

“I think one should be fine,” Macnair answered, briefly glancing over to them before meeting the woman’s cold gaze with a sort of smug look. “If it’s no trouble to you.”

The woman eyed them with that same disapproving stare. That stern gaze traveled from Macnair, to Barty, until it landed on her. She tried not to feel uncomfortable, but the woman’s glare reminded her of the moments when Madame Maxime would get upset with students for misbehavior. However, it didn’t seem as if this woman would fly into a rage any second though.

“She your wife?” the woman asked abruptly, narrowed eyes boring into Barty’s unfazed ones. Her eyes following down his left arm, draped around her chair, and then fixed on the lack of a golden band on his ring finger.

At the implication, she nearly choked on her breath. Yet a light pressure on her right shin warned her against saying or doing anything that would prove otherwise. She didn’t need to see him to know what he was thinking.

“Yes,” Barty told the woman, squeezing her shoulder with the tenderness only a lover would have. An emotion he didn’t have to act. “Will that be all?” he asked politely.

The woman pressed her lips together thinly, and she knew that the woman didn’t believe him for one second. She wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or nervous, but she didn’t have much time to think about that when a voice interrupted the woman’s interrogation.

“Yelena!” the man at the counter called out, followed by something in quick Russian that made the woman scowl.

“I vill get rooms ready,” she said to them, giving them one last disdainful look before walking away. All the while snapping something to the man in the same quick tongue.

It all went over her heard, but she gladly took a piece of rye bread and slathered it with butter. It’d been a while since she’d last eaten and with all the walking, she was famished. Ignoring her two companions, she took another slice.

At the retreating woman’s form, Macnair snorted. “What a bitch,” he tore at a slice of bread, tossing a piece into his mouth.

“Watch yourself,” Barty warned, smoothing butter on his slice as though he were some proper English gentleman. “We’re here to do our mission, not cause a scene.”

“Please, I can restrain myself,” Macnair eyed him with a smirk. “Unlike some wizards I know.”

Barty remained unperturbed by the comment. “If you’re talking about Dolohov, then I suggest you rethink that. Lest if he ever hears about it.”

Now that was an odd thing to say, Fleur thought. Though very briefly, she’d read up upon the Death Eaters who were currently locked up in Azkaban, Antonin Dolohov being one of them. And yet here they were, speaking about him as though he would someday find out.

Her grip tightened on the cup. So, it was only a matter of time before the Dark Lord sprung the remaining Death Eaters out of their prison. She wondered if the Ministry knew about this. Or even cared, for that matter.

What she did know, however, was that there would be a break in. Soon.

Barty looked back to her, and he must have seen something, for he frowned. “Enough, we should not be throwing names around,” he glanced around him, at the men who were still eyeing them more curiously than before. Had they heard the name that had been just uttered?

Her suspicions were confirmed true when her ears picked up the name again, from the table nearest to them. The name carried some weight to it, and none of it good.

She turned her attention back to their table, chewing somberly at her bread. Her tea was warm now, not as hot as before and it did not scald her fingertips when she lifted it up to take a sip. She was beginning to like it now, despite her own preferences and in any other circumstance, she would have enjoyed it even more. But as it was…

The man from the counter suddenly appeared at their table, effortlessly levitating a tray next to him as he sat three plates down on their table. A thick slab of pie sat in front of her, stuffed with various fillings; fish, rice, eggs, cabbage and onions, she noted as she poked it with her fork. When she looked back to the man to say thanks, he nodded to her curtly.

“My wife’s coulibiac is good,” he said, and then his December blues turned to glare disapprovingly at Barty, still speaking to her while he glared. “She says you are too thin.”

Her face flushed pink in embarrassment from the comment, and Macnair snorted. “Russians,” he grumbled as he stabbed into the puff pastry shell a bit more harshly than necessary.

She said nothing and looked back down to her plate. She noticed her portions were somewhat larger than theirs. Months ago, she would have been offended but now, she couldn’t help but feel touched by their concern no matter how forward it was. With her fork in hand, she slowly brought it to her mouth.

Savory, and she had the vaguest feeling that she’d had this before. Not that it mattered, but she didn’t think it was bad. For a moment, she even regretted complaining so much about the “heavy food” at Hogwarts. How trivial those complaints seemed compared to where she was now.

Their table remained silent throughout their meal, her two companions clearly not wanting to discuss anything that could be overheard by unwanted ears. That, and she discretely glanced between the two, they clearly didn’t like each other all that much. She knew that going into the mission from the way Barty talked about his fellow Death Eater, but still, she understood how difficult it could be working with people one didn’t like. Or in her case, people who didn’t like her based on their own assumptions.

For example, her companions assumed that because of her veela nature, she would be able to manipulate the giants. Yet there was no guarantee that this was possible, for after all, she was not a full veela.

Fleur took another bite of the coulibiac. Warm and savory in her mouth, she remembered home. Safe and comforting home, with her entire family gathered around to enjoy her grandmother’s cooking. At once, she remembered where she’d had this dish before. At a family reunion, to celebrate her oldest cousin’s success with the end of her fourth year exams. All the family had at her grandmother’s manor in the countryside to celebrate, and like a flash before her eyes, she remembered.

_Fleur was young then, eleven years old without a care in the world as she ran through the meadow. Her hair flying behind her while she chased her cousins around, the sounds of their laughter like a babbling brook. The sun rippled through their silver colored hair, casting a luminous sheen on the summer flowers around them. In the distance she could see her maman with little Gabrielle in her lap, talking with her twin sister, her tante Art_ _emia._

_She giggled as her older cousin, Rosine ran past her. She did her best to keep up, but it was difficult since Rosine was two years older than her and beginning to sprout like a sunflower._ _Out the corner of her eye, her oldest cousin, Yasmine, sat braiding flowers into the hair of her little sister, Cerise._

_Turning her eyes away, she stood alone on top of the small hill in the meadow, her arms outstretched against the sky as the summer breeze caressed her cheek. It ruffled her hair, teasing it as her father would do when he returned home from work. It engulfed her as an embrace she whole heartedly returned._

_“Mes chéris,” a voice called out, one she knew well. She turned in the direction of the house, only to see her beloved grand-maman waving them over. “Come now, my darlings, it’s time for dinner!”_

_The four of them ran down the meadow, laughing all the way as they raced each other to the house. The adults had gathered inside already, her own maman placing Gabrielle in a highchair and putting food on a small plate. Her papa beside her, adjusting the bib around the toddler’s neck._

_She sat next to her grand-maman, who placed a large helping of food in front of her. “It’s a Russian dish,” the old woman explained, pinching her cheek when she made a face. “Now make sure and eat all of it, or you won’t be allowed to ‘ear a story tonight.”_

_She placed a generous serving into her mouth at the sound of that. While the food wasn’t what she was used to, it wasn’t bad either. Different, but still good. She chattered away with her family, with the late June sun setting down into the sky. She joked with her oncle Armand and listened with a dreamy expression as Yasmine described her time from her fourth year at Beauxbaton’s. The very school Fleur would be attending with her two older cousins the following September._

_It wasn’t until later that evening, when they were sitting in the parlor drinking tea and hot chocolate, munching on palmiers that their grand-maman called them to gather around. In the big chair near the fire, they sat in a semi-circle, the light of the fire causing all their hair to shine like gold. Her grand-maman, with a teacup in her hand, smiled lovingly._

_“Mes poulettes,” she smiled, and they giggled at the nicknames. In the corner of the room, her maman smiled as her papa rocked Gabrielle to sleep. Her grandmother hummed, silent for a moment, but not for long. “’Ave you ever ‘eard the story of the very first veela?”_

_“No mémé,” Cerise giggled, wrapped in Rosine’s arms and the crumbs of a palmier on her face._

_“Tell us, mémé,” Fleur echoed, gazing up at the old woman adoringly. “_ _S'il vous plaît?_ _”_

_Their grand-maman set her cup down in her lap gracefully. Grand-papa had come up to sit in the chair beside her, his left hand entwining her free hand. She watched as their gazes met, something unspoken passing between them that made Fleur wonder what it could be, and it left her with the strange feeling she was witnessing something private; intimate._

_“The non-magique ‘ave altered the story a bit for their own purposes, but those of us who know the true story are still around,” her grand-maman began elegantly. “Now listen close, my darlings, there once was a maiden who was not sired by any man or woman, but rather by a wish. There once was a noble lady, whom for all her wealth and beauty, lived alone in ‘er castle with no one by ‘er side. She longed for a child of ‘er own, so she made a wish in the form of a prayer:_

_“I want a child white as snow that’s falling, red as the blood we bleed and black as ebony. Such, were the words the woman said in prayer and thus ‘er wish was granted. The infant was made out of snow gathered from the bottom of the mountain. The wind breathed life into ‘er, the mountain dew suckled ‘er, the forest dressed ‘er in leaves and the meadow adorned ‘er with flowers. The infant was flown by the north wind to the noble woman, who happily took ‘er in as ‘er daughter. The child was whiter than snow, ‘er cheeks rosier than a rose and ‘er ‘air as silvery as the moon. She was more radiant than the sun; she was such as the world ‘ad never seen before. Adored and ‘ated by all who caught a glimpse of her.”_

_Suddenly, Rosine interrupted her. “Why was she ‘ated grand-mama, if she was so beautiful?”_

_“For ‘er beauty,” grand-maman responded wisely. “As the maiden grew, and ‘er mother now much older, the woman grew envious of ‘er daughter’s beauty. With that envy, love turned to ‘ate and she turned the maiden away. The woman, with cruel insanity, took the string that connected them in red and cut by ordering the maiden to be sentenced to death. The man the woman ordered to kill the maiden found himself unable to do so, for the frightened maiden begged for ‘er life with a song. The man ‘eard the maiden’s song of fear and sadness from ‘er mother’s rejection and with weeping eyes, ‘e let ‘er go free.”_

_“Just like that?” Yasmine interrupted skeptically._

_“Oui,” grand-maman nodded. “You must remember the maiden was no ordinary girl. When the girl would sing, ‘er magic was released. When she danced, all that around ‘er became full of life. She could release springtime just by one song and dance. When she convinced the man to let ‘er go free, she ran into the forest with the intention to never return.”_

_“She lived in the forest with animals as ‘er companions and nature as ‘er ‘ome. She lived in fear of ‘er mother’s fury and of what she would do ‘er if she were to ever be found. A year passed, and one day while she was walking, she found a young man dying from an animal attack. The kind maiden took pity on ‘im, and with her song, she ‘ealed ‘im back to life.”_

_“That was nice of ‘er,” Fleur cut her grand-maman off. “Did she marry ‘im?”_

_Her grand-maman’s face darkened. “The young man, upon awaking and seeing the maiden’s beauty, repaid ‘er in the most terrible way possible. She bore the blame of an unjustified claim, as the young man declared ‘er youthfulness ‘is. All the maiden felt was white searing pain inside as the young man took comfort from ‘er. When ‘e was finished, she was left to die in the forest.”_

_Silence overtook the living room. She noticed Yasmine and Rosine’s faces had gone very pale, and a hard look crossed into her maman’s eyes. Even her tante pursed her lips together, just like she did when she was disgusted. Whatever the young man did, it must have been very bad._

_“The maiden, who did not die, felt a new emotion arise inside. All ‘er life she ‘ad been kind and benevolent, but now she realized the awful darkness that ‘uman beings carried inside. What was burning in ‘er chest was ‘atred. ‘Ate for the mother who was supposed to love ‘er, and ‘ate for the man who ‘ad taken something that was not ‘is to take. The ‘ate consumed ‘er in black, and with the anger, she took a new form. The same form that veela now take when we are enraged.”_

_“What did she do next?” Rosine asked._

_“The maiden arrived in ‘er mother’s house, with a desire for vengeance staining ‘er ‘eart black. Everyone who blamed ‘er beauty for their ‘ate and actions would suffer a terrible fate just like she ‘ad. She took the blame given to ‘er and she used it to ‘er will. With no remorse left in ‘er ‘eart, she killed the woman who ‘ad tried to kill ‘er.”_

_Cerise’s jaw dropped. “She killed ‘er maman? That’s…that’s so mean!”_

_“Ah, but ‘er mother tried to kill ‘er, remember? If she ‘ad stayed, do you think ‘er mother wouldn’t ‘ave tried to do it again? The maiden ‘ad to do what was necessary for ‘er own survival.”_

_“What ‘appened to ‘er next?” Fleur asked abruptly. “What did she do?”_

_The maiden lived alone in the forest for a long time. Until she felt such a loneliness she could no longer bear, she wished for a companion. For the north wind that carried ‘er and the mountain that raised ‘er, sang for the first time in many years. A song of sadness; of ‘ope for something better. And from the north wind, she learned ‘ow to create. The same way she was brought into the world, the maiden created veela companions for ‘erself.”_

_“Immortal; never aging as time passed, they refined their skills of song and dance. But out of all of them, the first veela was the loveliest and most powerful. But she was cold as the snow; ‘er ‘eart still full of ‘urt from the past. Even though she loved ‘er sisters and brothers, she still mourned for what ‘ad been done to ‘er. Until one day, when she met a man.”_

_“’E isn’t mean like the first one, is ‘e?” Cerise asked with a frown. “I want the veela to be ‘appy.”_

_“This man was different,” grand-mama smiled as she spoke. “The man ‘ad come down from the mountains, lost and cold, but despite ‘is wanderings, ‘e was immediately taken by the maiden’s beauty and powerful song. Lost in a spell, ‘e could do nothing but stand and watch ‘er. Upon seeing ‘im, she fled. ‘E did not chase ‘er for she was as fast as the wind, but from then on every day, ‘e would return to where the first met and ‘oped that ‘e could see ‘er again.”_

_“The seasons passed, and one day, she returned. She knew ‘e ‘ad been waiting for ‘er and despite ‘er fear, she sensed something about ‘im. ‘E ‘ad not tried to ‘arm ‘er when they first met, and ‘ad not pursued ‘er when she ran. When she saw ‘im again, she made to run, but ‘e called out to her. Ralitsa! Ralitsa! He called to ‘er, for those were the flowers that would bloom around ‘er when she danced.”_

_“She stopped then, and ‘e came closer to ‘er. For a long time, they simply stared at each other, and then, the man bowed and introduced ‘imself. ‘Is name being Dima, and ‘e ‘ad fallen in love with the maiden. And after some time, the coldness of ‘er ‘eart melted. They stayed together in that forest with ‘er sisters, and she bore ‘im many daughters. They lived together for many ‘appy years until she realized something terrible.”_

_“What?” Fleur inquired curiously._

_“The man was mortal, and while ‘e aged, she did not. She received a vision of ‘er future and saw nothing but grief and loneliness. The maiden decided that she would rather spend one lifetime with Dima than to face the rest of the ages without ‘im. So, the maiden pleaded with Death to spare ‘er lover, but Death told the maiden that ‘er Dima would ‘ave to die, for that was the nature of ‘umans. The maiden, refusing to accept this, bargained with Death. She knelt before Death and sang a song of what she’d seen in ‘er vision. A song of love and joy, but also one of suffering and mourning.”_

_“Death, who was all but forgiving, in this one moment took pity on the maiden. Death could not permit the man to live forever, but Death did offer the maiden to join the man. If she relinquished ‘er immortality, then they would reunite together in the afterlife. The maiden agreed without a second thought. Her sisters, brothers, and children, who were there to witness the bargain, could not bear to live in a world without ‘er. So, they too, in solidarity for their sister and mother, agreed to live a mortal lifespan.”_

_“So, they died?” Yasmine frowned heavily. “What kind of an ending is that?”_

_“A romantic one,” Fleur sighed dreamily. “So did Dima die right away?”_

_“No,” Grand-maman shook her head. “They spent more time with each other until one day, when Dima inevitably died of old age and the maiden, Ralitsa, as I should call ‘er, wandered the forest in grief until she collapsed upon the earth and died.”_

_“Sacré bleu,” Yasmine rolled her eyes. “That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”_

_“But she was in love,” tante Artemia retorted to her oldest daughter. “Love can make people do dramatic things, no?”_

_“I guess,” the teenager sighed with a shrug._

_“I think it’s beautiful,” Fleur shook her head, tilting her chin up defiantly. “I can’t wait to meet my Dima one day.”_

_“You’ll ‘ave time for that when you’re older,” her maman said firmly._

_“And it is said that the direct descendants of Ralitsa and Dima are still alive today,” grand-maman said so suddenly that the attention was on her once again. “’Er siblings ‘ad children of their own, and thus, there are many veela in the world today. Living all over, in fact.”_

_“Are we related to them, grand-maman? To Ralitsa and Dima?” Rosine asked curiously. “Are we?”_

_“Who knows, dearie,” their grand-maman shook her silvery head. “Too much time ‘as passed for us to truly know.”_

She was jolted out of the memory suddenly. The comfort of her grand-maman’s parlor vanishing along with the warmth and laughter. She remembered where was, and the home sickness hit her harder than any stunning spell. The coulibiac tasted like dust in her mouth, and even though she was mostly done with it now, she pushed it away with a loss of appetite.

How much of her grand-maman’s story was true, she didn’t know. For all that she knew, it could all just be fable made up to entertain children. Yet, the stubborn part of her refused to believe that it couldn’t be anything but. According to her maman, it had been passed down through their family line. There had to be some truth in it then.

Even if she was related to the first veela, centuries had passed. There wasn’t any reasonable sense to assume that the first veela’s power had been passed on. Even if it had, she was only a quarter veela. If her song ever became that powerful, wouldn’t she know it?

Well, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed her companions. If she did have any power she wasn’t fully aware of, she’d better discover it quick.

“ _Izvinee, pazhalusta_ ,”

A girl had appeared out of thin air, it seemed. She had to have been seven or eight years old, though she was so small that Fleur couldn’t really tell. The girl smiled the same way that Gabrielle did when their parents had guests over for dinner. Polite, but still reserved in a way that only a child could be. Where her two front teeth should have been, there was a gap, like she’d had a hard fall at some point. The lamp light reflected her blue eyes, which sparkled with wonder.

“I like your hair,” the girl indicated towards her hair, while fiddling with her own pale brown locks. “It is very pretty.”

She gave the child a smile that felt warmer than she did on the inside. Even with the way the other two had ceased in their eating and were staring at the child for her sudden intrusion, how could she deny the girl a simple kindness?

“Thank you,” Fleur said kindly. “What is your name?”

Just as the girl opened her mouth to speak, she was interrupted by someone calling her name sharply. “Mashka!” the woman from before, Yelena, now had one of her arms wrapped around the child’s shoulder. She glared down at the girl. “Vot have I told you about bothering customers? Go upstairs! Shoo! Shoo!”

She stepped in before the child could run off, immediately assuming that the woman was Mashka’s mother. “It is fine,” she said calmly, the woman’s gaze darting from the girl to her. “She was not being bothersome.”

Yelena narrowed her eyes in doubt, but she jerked her head towards the direction of the counters. “Go help your father.”

With that swift motion, the girl was gone, her braided hair bouncing against her shoulders as she skipped to where her father was waiting. The moment she was gone, Yelena’s attention was on them. With narrowed eyes, she set two ancient looking cast-iron keys down. “When you are done,” she said stiffly. “Your rooms will be first two rooms at end of hall.”

With that, she was gone, wringing her hands in her apron agitatedly as she left. Fleur didn’t blame her. Her own hands were now, to her frustration, shaking again. Out of fear, she surmised. She was tired; all she wanted to do now was sleep. Two rooms could only mean that Macnair had his own, and she and Barty…

Fleur swallowed hard. What was the point of getting all worked up now, she thought crossly. It would be no different from the prison.

“I’m turning in,” Macnair pushed himself out of the chair with a loud sigh. “You do whatever you want, Barty. Just don’t be too loud, alright?”

She forced herself not to blush out of humiliation for that comment. Barty on the other hand rolled his eyes. “Don’t be crass,” he eyed him, adding. “And don’t act like it would bother you.”

With a snort, Macnair grabbed one of the keys and gave them both a quick wave before disappearing up the old staircase.

“We should turn in too,” Barty said lowly, the hand on her shoulder squeezing gently. “I’m tired, and I’m sure you are too.”

Dead on her feet wouldn’t begin to summarize how exhausted she felt, but Fleur only nodded in silent agreement. Weariness had dulled the anger she had towards him, but she would by no means say anything to him at the moment. Anything other than the bubbling hatred she felt for him. She shook his hand off her shoulder while he grabbed the key, neither of them saying anything as they walked up the creaking stairs.

The room was not anything fancy, Fleur noted. Simple; rustic, but the bed with its fresh sheets and red quilted blanket looked comforting enough. There was a bathroom adjoined to the wall next to a water basin, with a shower and toilet that looked as though it’d seen better days. Still, it was better than camping out in the rain, so whatever complaints she had she swallowed down.

Fleur took the bag attached to her side, digging her hand around for a moment until she found proper night clothes. Practically throwing the bag down on the dresser, she turned to face him with a glare. “Well?” she asked acidly, earning a confused look from him. She rolled her eyes. “I want you to turn around.”

He gave a short laugh but stopped when he noticed she wasn’t relenting. “Be serious,” he arched an eyebrow. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

“That may be so,” she began evenly, ignoring the way he rolled his eyes. “But I ‘ave no intention of letting you see me.”

Barty stared at her for what seemed like forever until a strange rueful smile crossed his face. “Ah, I see. I’m in the doghouse, aren’t I?”

“Call it whatever you want,” she ignored that last bit; refusing to even acknowledge it. “Now, turn around.”

“Why should I?” he challenged, and she stilled suddenly, taken aback by his sudden boldness. He stood before her; dark eyes unbothered by her artic glare. Barty tilted his head in observation. “I understand why you’re upset with me. I truly do, but you will see in the end that it was for the best.”

“For the best?” Fleur spat out angrily. “So, placing me under the Imperious Curse and raping me was for the best?”

He darkened, mouth twisting into something akin to a smile, but much crueler. “You brought that onto yourself. You hurt me, so I had to take action. I didn’t want to have to do it, but you left me with no choice.”

“You ‘ad the choice not to rape me!”

“And you had the choice to not act like a banshee,” Barty said dangerously low. “None of this would have happened if you had decided to not push your luck.”

Fleur stilled, staring at him with all the disgust and hate she could muster into a single glare. “You are a _monstre_ ,” she hissed, but this wasn’t something she didn’t already know. “You can’t get a woman’s love, so you consort to kidnapping and rape. I pity you, Barty, but I will never, ever, love you.”

His eye twitched at her words, but that smile remained. “Harsh words,” he mused. “But we both know you don’t mean it.”

“What?”

“When we were in the library making sweet, sweet love,” Barty’s grin widened as she flinched at the very word. “You told me you loved me.”

“Not by choice,” she snapped hotly. “You made me say those words!”

“And yet at the moment, you felt them. Now yes, I did make you say those words, but the feeling behind them was still there.”

She turned her face away in disgust. “That proves nothing,” she muttered, her hands gripping her nightclothes tightly. “All it proves is that you can’t get anyone to say those words without controlling them.”

He chuckled softly, reaching for her. She stood her ground, not shoving him away when he stroked her face, so close to her that she could feel his breath on hers. “There was something else you did that night, too. Something I didn’t make you do that you did all on your own,” he murmured. “You wrapped your arms around me, holding me close to you.”

She paled at the implication but made no move to back away. “So what?” she began gravely. “That also doesn’t prove anything.”

“Ah, but I didn’t ask you to do that,” Barty countered in dark amusement. “You know full well what the effects of the Imperious Curse are. I admit, I wasn’t anticipating you to have built up some resistance to it already, but I wasn’t upset about the way you touched me.”

He leaned in closer to her, voice warm against her ear. “You held me close to you that night. You stroked my hair as one would a lover. You wrapped yourself tighter around me as I fucked into you. And I didn’t make you do any of that.”

“That doesn’t,” she started, but stopped. She remembered that night vividly, just as she remembered all the other times. All those nights she would lay there passively; not resisting his touch or his kisses. Letting him have his way while all she wanted to do was fly away. She never wanted to die, that had never crossed her mind. Not even now when he was throwing this information into her face cruelly. “That doesn’t mean I love you,” she finished softly.

“Maybe not now,” he breathed against her hair. “But I think it means you don’t hate me as much as you think you do.”

She pulled away, but he was quicker. In an instant, his hands were gripping her more firmly than before. Fleur found herself pulled flush against him, her hands pressing against his chest so they could feel the beating of his damned heart. How she wished she had the strength to tear it out of his chest.

“I know your body as well as you do,” Barty smiled against her cheek, his hands stroking her shoulders and down her arms so softly the goose flesh raised in spite of herself. “My dear, you and I are not so different.”

“We are nothing alike,” she growled. “You know nothing!”

“You would stop at nothing for the ones you love,” he alluded to her family. To the display of despair she felt when she was unable to rescue Gabrielle. “That fierceness in your; that strong will of yours only goes onto show you are unrelentingly bright. It almost blinded me in the beginning. Some might want to extinguish you, but I won’t let that happen.”

“Nothing you say will make me ‘ate you less,” she couldn’t break free, and the weight of being trapped in his embrace was unbearably suffocating.

“Perhaps for now, but I can live with that,” Barty said as he carded his hands through her hair. “But we are apart of each other, darling. Despite whatever lies you make to yourself; your love is mine.”

Immediately she pushed him away. He didn’t look affronted or angry. No, there was a seriousness that disturbed her more than the crooked smiles or deranged laughter. Regardless of her overwhelming feeling to vomit into the toilet, there was something else.

That dark piece of magic, so polluted and tainted, crawled against her skin. Yet she refused to acknowledge its presence. It scratched, demanding for her to see it, but Fleur forced it back down to the pit it crawled out from. Her own magic, still bright but somehow slightly dulled now, repressing it as much as she could. She swayed where she stood, grasping the door frame of the bathroom to keep herself upright. Her magic churned against her, crackling against her skin.

Barty must have known better than to touch her, for he backed up a few steps to sit on the end of the bed, watching her with the intensive eyes of a predator.

Fleur snarled, turning swiftly on her heel and yanked the bathroom door open. Even with the dust that fell from the frame and walls around her, she slammed it closed with more force than necessary. If he thought he could take comfort from her tonight, then he was mistaken.

When she eventually, after what seemed like for an eternity, opened the bathroom door she found him asleep. She let out the sigh she didn’t even realize she’d been holding in.

He must have known that he wouldn’t be getting any that night. While she absolutely hated the thought of sharing this inviting bed with him, one look at the dust on the floorboards told her she had exactly two choices: sleep there, or suck in her pride and go on the bed.

The moment she sat on the bed; the exhaustion hit her like tidal wave. She didn’t worry about him reaching over to touch her, for the sound of his breathing told her he was in deep sleep. She wrapped her half of the blanket around her, the rumbling of thunder and the heavy rain lulling her into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't say if anything Barty says has any merit. He's still in an insane creep, so I wouldn't trust anything he says. Obviously I wouldn't, but our Fleur is emotionally vulnerable at the moment, so I doubt he much cares. Makes me want to kick him in the teeth even more.
> 
> The back story of the veela has a lot of inspiration I took from various stories and such. It has some elements of one of my favorite stories from all time, Beren and Luthien by J.R.R Tolkien. Interestingly, the veela from Slavic lore are very similar to those of Germanic lore, which Tolkien took much inspiration from. The poem he wrote is really lovely too, and it almost makes me wish I had the sort of talent to write as well as him. 
> 
> Translations:   
> Tante- Aunt  
> Oncle- Uncle  
> Mes chéris- My darlings  
> Mes poulettes- My little chickens. I found it cute considering veelas turn into angry bird-like creatures when angry  
> Mémé- another way to say grandma. Fun fact I used to call my grandma this.  
> Izvinee, pazhalusta- Russian for excuse me, please. If this wrong, please correct me.
> 
> The names I chose for Fleur's cousins are all named after flowers. Yasmine (Jasmine), Rosine (Variaton of Rose), Cerise (Cherry). Artemia is Apolline's twin sister, and since Apolline is a feminine version of Greek Apollo, I chose Artemia for Artemis. Yelena is a Russian form of Helen, Ilya is a form of Elijah, and Mashka is a nickname for Marie. Dima I thought was interesting because it means devotee of Demeter and Ralitsa is named for the flowers. 
> 
> Anyways, I hope you all are staying safe out there! I hope this all passes soon and that we can all go back to our normal lives, but until then, please keep yourselves and your loved ones safe.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I'm back again with another chapter. Thanks for all the support thus far! It's good to know people are still reading this because oh boy, we've got a lot of things coming. This chapter is pretty heavy on exposition and more of a set up, but I hope you enjoy it anyway.
> 
> I hope you all are staying safe out there, and without further ado, enjoy the chapter!

Mist covered the world outside like a heavy blanket that morning. Despite being August, the draft brought in the morning’s rainy chill and Fleur grumbled at the unwelcome intrusion. She woke up slowly, eyes adjusting to the semi-lightened room. The mist cast the bedroom in a sort of gray light and with its chill, she scooted further into the bed, which was warm compared to the cold room.

Much warmer than before, Fleur thought with a frown and slowly opened her eyes. That couldn’t be right, but the fact remained that it was warmer and moving…no, she swore to herself and turned her attention to her pillow. Sometime during the night, she had moved and now she found herself lying across Barty’s chest, who had also at some point adjusted his position.

Well, she swore vehemently, fuck.

This had never happened before. Logically Fleur knew that due to the draft, she had moved seeking more warmth and he just happened to be there. If she didn’t move away now, he would wake up and be smug about it. Perverted bastard.

Careful not to wake him, Fleur started to move away, but Barty’s arms immediately tightened around her. She growled. “Let me go,” she warned him, her attempts more forceful than before. He grunted in displeasure when she managed to dig her elbow into his ribs.

“Don’t,” he murmured, sleep still in his voice.

“Let me go!”

“I’m not the one who decided they wanted to cuddle in the middle of the night,” the bastard said haughtily, now opening his eyes and smirking. “Not that I mind, of course.”

Still pressed to his chest, Fleur sighed irritably. “Of course, you don’t,” she sneered.

Barty chuckled, shifting slightly beneath her, becoming more awake than before. “I take it you’re still upset with me?” he asked, but it didn’t really sound like a question. More of a statement, really.

“Did you think I would not be after only one night?” Fleur asked sharply. “I still ‘ate you and that ‘as not changed.”

“That’s what I thought,” Barty said solemnly. But to her ire, he didn’t sound bothered by it.

She glared down it him with the coldness of an ice storm. His fingers were playing with the ends of her silvery hair absently, as though he thought he had every right in the world to do so. According to Pureblood politics, anyway, Fleur thought derisively. In their eyes, she was simply something to be passed around and used till broken. A decorative doll for their own amusement.

“Don’t you ‘ave things to do?” she asked brusquely. “World domination plans and all?”

“They can wait,” Barty smiled, sliding a hand up her arm. “I doubt Macnair is up yet. We have some time to ourselves.”

Fleur blinked at the suggestiveness of his voice. The hand wandering up her arm was nothing compared to the one that lingered on her waist, the fingers dancing along her hip teasingly. She glared down at him. “If you think that I am going to let you-”

She stopped suddenly at the growing smirk on his face, and if she were a cat, the hackles on her neck would be growing. He adjusted himself so that she was sitting right on his lap, his face much closer to hers now. Though she wanted to throttle him, she didn’t break her icy glare when something hard brushed up against her thighs.

“Comfortable?” Barty asked, the bastard grinning evilly now at the look of enrage breaking across her features.

Fleur ground her teeth together, willing her rage to calm down before it exploded. She took a breath, schooling her expression into one of disinterest. “’Ardly,” she said shortly, tossing her head back arrogantly. “I think the dining room chair is much more comfortable than you.”

Barty cocked his head. “Is that so?” he asked.

“Oui,” she replied without missing a beat. “I meant what I said before. I ‘ave no desire to let you touch me.”

“Well, princess, I’m touching you right now, aren’t I?” he said slyly. “I can accept that you’re still mad at me, but would you rather I take my wand out and use the Imperious Curse on you?”

Fleur couldn’t stop the flinch her body made, but she swallowed down the lump of panic that had begun to claw its way up her stomach. “Use it all you want,” she said with much more bravado than she felt at the moment. She hated the way his eyes stared into hers, studying her the way one would an opponent. Or their next conquest. “It still won’t change ‘ow I feel. Although I am sure all your Death Eater friends ‘ave no problem at all using that curse, I always figured you didn’t want to ‘ave to use it on me.”

Barty grinned ruefully, and she tried to ignore the way his hand cupped around her thigh, the fingers stroking the inner side her flesh gently. “You might have a point there,” he said finally, his other hand still playing with her hair. “I don’t want to use it unless I have to. Why would anyone want to use that curse on the one that they love?”

What Fleur wanted to say was: “They don’t you monstre! Even if they are upset with their loved one, they don’t resort to cursing them! And especially not with a curse like that!”

However, she did not say that. Instead, she pushed that swell of hatred back and placed her hand on top of his, stilling the movements along her thigh. “ _Don’t do anything you will regret later_ ,” Narcissa’s words echoed in her mind. She had placed her cards on the table that night in a show of pride that led to, well, _that_.

And look where that got you, she thought bitterly to herself. She didn’t want a repeat of what happened only a few days ago. She took a deep breath, mulling the words over in her head. “I might ‘ave been a bit rash,” Fleur admitted, even though it felt like acid on her tongue. “I am still mad at you, but I do not want to ‘ave that curse on me again.”

“I don’t want to have to use it on you either.”

A part of her didn’t want to believe that, but Fleur knew better. Despite the way it sickened her, the honest look in his eyes told her otherwise. With a sunken heart, she knew that Narcissa was right. Maybe reacting the way she did had not, in hindsight, been the smartest move, but there was no way to take it back now.

But they couldn’t keep going on the way they were. Fleur realized now the full extent of how far he was willing to go just keep her, even if it meant taking away her free will, and she needed it in order to eventually escape. What she’d done earlier could have cost her more than the stripping away of her will. She needed him to trust her, or at least, know she wouldn’t do anything drastic.

“So,” Barty began smoothly, raising an eyebrow. “What are you thinking about, princess?”

If Fleur had to use him to survive, then so be it. As much as what Narcissa said pained her, she would take the advice. “I want to make a deal,” Fleur said calmly, allowing no emotion to betray how awful she felt about having to resort to this; to needing him.

“Is that so?” Barty asked interestedly, leaning up to better look her. “And why do you want to do that?”

“Macnair,” Fleur said, and the name of the Death Eater immediately had Barty’s attention. Good. “I am sure you saw the way ‘e looked at me yesterday, non?”

Now she had his full attention. The hand on her thigh stilled and slowly, his hand began sliding off of her to rest at his side. His dark eyes stared darkly into hers, and she didn’t need to read his mind to know what he was thinking. “What are you trying to say, dear?” Barty asked, the “dear” almost so low that the hairs on her back rose.

“I do not trust him, and I know you do not either,” Fleur ignored the incredibly possessive way he stared at her, but she did not tear her eyes away. “My magic is a bit more sensitive to others. I can guess you already know that it is attuned to the people I am around. That’s what makes a veela’s allure; our magic draws people in.”

“Yes,” Barty replied slowly. “I know all that.”

“’E will try to take me,” Fleur said gravely, and she watched as his eyes darkened further. “I am no seer, but ‘e will try. I ‘ave no wand, so I am outmatched. If I ‘ad mine, I would defeat that bastard with ease. Yet, I am without one, so I need your ‘elp.”

Needing and wanting were two different things, and Barty clearly knew that. He smiled, tilting his head to the side with a smirk. “So, you want something from me,” as much as she wanted to strangle him, and her hands did twitch at her side, she refrained from doing so. “And what will you offer me in return, hm?”

Now came the part she was dreading, but Fleur persevered. “Whatever you want,” if this is what she had to do, then it was what she had to do. His eyes lit up at those words. “Apart from ‘urting or killing anyone, I will do what you want.”

Barty stared at her for the longest time, saying nothing, and leaving her wondering if she’d said the right words. Her conditions were simple if she wanted to stay alive for the rest of this journey. If the arrangement worked, then she could prove that he could trust her to keep her word, and Fleur never backed out on her promises. If it meant that no one got hurt, or worse, killed on her account, then she would live with her choices.

“Whatever I want,” Barty continued in a sort of sing-song way. He tapped his finger to his chin in thought, and though she wouldn’t show it, it did little to ease her aggravated nerves. Finally, he stopped. “What I want, is for you to not fight me every step of the way. As much as I love you, it would make this journey a lot bearable.”

“I can do that,” Fleur said. “Difficult though it may be, but I will do that if you can make sure that when it ‘appens, you will keep Macnair away from me.”

Barty didn’t bother trying to correct her. There was no “if” it would happen, and he knew her quite well to know that she wasn’t lying. Especially in regard to her need of self-preservation. His hand reached back up to her waist, settling on it almost casually. “Alright then,” he grinned, and of course, that didn’t make her feel any better. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

She bowed her head. “Thank you.”

With a sigh, Barty leaned back against the pillows. “Look at you,” he began, with that same grin on his face. “Aren’t you a vision. All pretty sitting here on my lap. Makes me think of all the things we could do here.”

Her nails biting into her skin, Fleur said nothing. In all their times together, apart from the time she’d blown him, she had never once initiated sex. Fighting him would only lead to _that c_ urse, and that time seemed to go on for an eternity. Instead, she would lie there and almost always, everything would go away. She’d fly away; somewhere far and be free to exist in a world that wasn’t painful. Until the real world came crashing down around her. In only a matter of weeks, she found that solution to be a lot easier to deal with.

“ _You won’t a feel a thing,_ ” a voice would say in Fleur’s head, not one she recognized at all. “ _When you go down into that little world of yours_.”

Fleur wasn’t sure when, exactly, this voice started, but it didn’t do to dwell on these sort of things. Dwelling hurt, and it was much easier just focusing on how she was going to survive this ordeal rather than focus on the why she was going through it.

“Alas,” Barty said, snapping her out of her daydream. “We should probably go and see if Macnair is up yet.”

Fleur nearly sighed in relief. She immediately climbed off his lap, stumbling around on the floor to find her footing. She located the silken drawstring bag, rummaging around until she found her clothes, towels, and hair products. She turned back to the bastard, still lying in bed and watching her with the mildest trace of fasciation.

“Well?” she asked, arching her eyebrow. “If we are in no ‘urry to get moving, then I am taking a shower.”

Fleur tossed her head, closing the bathroom door behind her and let out a snort. For quick measure, she locked it and gave a sigh of relief at the privacy. Even if the bathroom had seen better days, it was better than nothing. Getting the water to run took a few tries, as she kept having to twist the faucets several times while the plumbing let out rumbling sound. She stood there in the tub, glaring at it when a stream of ice-cold water hit her, and she let out an undignified squawk.

Grumbling, Fleur eventually managed to get the water to a warmer temperature and sighed, allowing the droplets to wash yesterday’s sweat away. The shampoo wasn’t her favorite type, but it would have to do until she eventually found her way home. For now, she ran it through her hair, her nails lightly scraping the residue out.

The sun had risen higher in the sky by the time Fleur was out, sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed, and running a brush through her damp hair. The mist had cleared, and it looked as though it was going to be a beautiful summer day. Too bad she was stuck spending it with people she absolutely despised.

Rolling her eyes at the very thought of them, she practically threw the hairbrush back in the bag. He was nowhere to be seen, and when she poked her head out of the door, Macnair’s room was wide open and to her relief, vacant.

Silken purse and room key in hand, Fleur stepped out into the hallway. It was quiet, and she wondered briefly if this place had very many customers at all. Perhaps not, she thought as she recalled how it took a little while for the woman to come back with their keys. From her own perspective, it seemed that only locals really stayed in this place and it was very likely they only stayed for food and drink.

“You are veela, no?”

Fleur nearly jumped out of her skin at the deep voice that sounded from behind her. Turning slowly, she realized that Yelena had materialized out of Macnair’s room, a broom hovering a few inches behind her. Yelena’s mouth twisted into a frown; her eyes narrowed as she observed Fleur.

What that had to do with anything, Fleur didn’t know, but what she did know was that she had heard that sort of tone before. She tossed her head, addressing the older woman coolly. “Yes,” she said reservedly. “I am a veela.”

Fleur half expected some remark. Nothing new for her, frustrating as people’s assumptions could be. “Oh no, so being pretty is a problem now? Yes, being prettier than everyone around you must be so difficult,” Fleur recalled, words spoken to her so long ago on a day when she’d been feeling particularly self-conscious. Because she was pretty, she couldn’t have problems. Because she was pretty, that meant she wanted everyone’s attention on her.

Well, Fleur had heard that just about all her life from outsiders. Now, she stared in the woman’s eyes defiantly, daring her to judge. What did this woman know about her life, Fleur reminded herself. She had fought dragons and grindylows and entered a dark and dangerous maze. Out of all the Beauxbaton’s students, she was the worthiest to compete in the tournament. Even now, she played a dangerous game with an unstable bastard.

So no, she wasn’t going to put up with nonsense from anyone. Not when there was too much at stake.

“If that is all you ‘ave to say, then you will ‘ave to excuse me,” Fleur said coldly. “My ‘usband is downstairs waiting for me.”

To her surprise, Yelena’s gaze softened. “I mean no disrespect to you,” came her deep voice, and Fleur could hear just how tired she was. Radiating off the woman was exhaustion and worry. Those wrinkles around those gray eyes and her mouth relaxed as the frown disappeared. “I only vondered.”

Fleur said nothing, but instead of leaving, curiosity got the better of her. She relaxed more, offering the woman a polite smile instead. “My grand-maman is a veela,” she offered, as if that would change any other assumptions the woman had. “My grand-papa is not; he is a wizard.”

“I apologize if I seemed suspicious,” Yelena lowered her gaze. “We do not get many outsiders from England here.”

“I am from France, originally,” Fleur said. “From Brittany.”

Yelena nodded, though her gaze didn’t meet hers. “And your husband?” she asked Fleur, her voice considerably lower now. “He is involved in bad thing, no?”

Before Fleur could say anything, Yelena cut her off. “Lying is no good,” Yelena said sharply. “I have met his kind before. It is always in eyes. I saw yesterday how he looked at you. His friend, too.”

Fleur pursed her lips. As much as her stomach churned whenever Yelena said “husband,” she did not dare correct her. “You know ‘ow men are,” Fleur offered Yelena easily, hoping that she would take a hint and not press further. “But my ‘usband is not a sharing sort of man, so I ‘ave no need to worry about his friend.”

But Yelena did, and so did her family, if she continued asking Fleur questions. The very last thing Fleur wanted was for an innocent family to get involved and end up dead. She had no reservations that Barty would kill the family if they started asking Fleur even more questions.

“I have seen long time ago that look,” Yelena whispered. “Your ‘usband’s friend yesterday said name. Antonin Dolohov. His family come from Russia. He killed my brothers.”

Yelena turned her face away as Fleur’s throat constricted painfully. The sorrow that leaked from the woman was potent, strong enough that she could feel nothing but the woman’s pain. “I am sorry,” Fleur offered her, stepping forward, placing her hand on the woman’s arm. “I did not know-”

Yelena shook her head, using the corner of her apron to dab at her eyes. “Not your fault,” she said brusquely. “You are young, you would not remember time of Death Eaters.”

“I-”

“You must watch yourself,” Yelena said sternly, her eyes moving back up to meet Fleur’s. “He vill try to hurt you. You stay on guard and watch your back. Yes?”

Whether she was talking about Barty or Macnair, Fleur didn’t know, but she nodded her head. “I will look out,” she promised the woman. “And my ‘usband would not take kindly to another man’s attempt.”

Yelena nodded, apparently satisfied with Fleur’s answer. “My Mashka,” she started, a hint of fondness in her voice. “She is mine and Ilya’s only daughter.”

Fleur thought of the little girl from last night, who had stood there with a shy, but very sweet smile as she spoke to Fleur. “She seems very sweet,” she told Yelena. “I ‘ave a little sister about ‘er age.”

In one smile, all the years seemed to leave Yelena’s face. “She saw yesterday you valking across street and told me that a rusalka vas coming,” she sighed then, shaking her head. “I thought you were Rusalka too, until I saw your hair. I told Ilya I know veela hair vhen I see it.

Fleur found herself perplexed. “Rusalka coming in from the woods? I thought they rarely ever do that.”

Yelena nodded. “I see them in the forest, but never in the village,” Yelena glanced back to Fleur’s hair. “Mashka vanted to touch your hair, but I remember veela don’t like their hair touched.”

“It depends who it is,” Fleur said with a shrug.

“Mama!”

They both turned to see a small figure, Mashka, running towards them. Her hair braided in two loops today, she looked from her mother to Fleur with a shy smile. “Hello,” she greeted Fleur, and immediately brightened when Fleur smiled back.

“’Ow do you do?” Fleur asked, kneeling down to the girl’s eye level. “My name is Fleur, and you are Mashka, oui?”

“ _Da_ ,” Mashka replied, and then flushed, correcting herself. “I mean, yes.”

Yelena looked to Fleur with a sigh. “She has started learning English,” came her brief explanation. “It has only been one year, and she is better than me and Ilya.”

“You is rusalka?” the child asked abruptly, staring up at Fleur curiously.

“No,” Fleur shook her head, and said kindly. “I am a veela.”

“Oh,” Mashka studied her. “Okay.”

The girl probably didn’t see the difference, but Fleur paid no mind. Yelena turned back to her daughter, fixing her with a stern look. “That is enough, no more bothering our guest,” the woman patted her daughter on the head. “Now go on, you ‘ave homework to do.”

Mashka sighed. “But mama it is summer holiday,” the girl complained to her mother’s unimpressed expression. “No one does homework on holiday!”

Yelena raised her eyes. “It is either do homework or help papa by doing dishes.”

Mashka made a face and Fleur tried hard not to laugh at the familiar expression. With a dramatic sigh, Mashka turned on her heel to leave when she suddenly stopped, whirling around to face Fleur. “Oh!” she started, running back to them. “Your husband is looking for you. He is kind of weird.” With that, Mashka imitated Barty by sticking her tongue out before darting down the inn’s hallway, possibly to avoid getting scolded by Yelena.

“You better go,” Yelena turned towards Fleur, waving her wand so that her broom went to lie down against the wall. “Men do not like to be kept vaiting.”

Yelena disappeared into the vacant room, and Fleur begrudgingly made her way down the stairs, expecting to see both men waiting for her. To her surprise, only Macnair was at the table with a cup of black tea and a bowl of what looked to be a sort of porridge. Upon seeing her coming down the stairs, he waved her over.

“Where is Barty?” Fleur asked, looking around the inn. It seemed different than it did last night. More friendly and less closed off.

“He’s speaking with the owner in the back,” Macnair gestured with his thumb over to the door behind the counter, his leering gaze never leaving hers. “Can’t be without it for too long, can you?”

How unimaginative. Fleur ignored him and sat down in one of the empty chairs. Almost immediately, she took a spoonful of porridge from the large bowl in the center of the table. It wasn’t bad, she thought, after adding helpings of butter and jam. However, she noted as she stared stonily ahead, it would be a better breakfast if Macnair would stop staring so intensely at her.

He wouldn’t try anything, Fleur assumed, not with Barty only a few feet away. They were not the only ones in the inn too, as a family of four just entered the establishment. But she had only known him for twenty-four hours and with the way he still kept his eyes on her, she could only be so certain of a few things.

“Do you mind?” she said quiet enough that it wouldn’t draw attention, but loud enough for him to hear. She eyed him derisively. “I am trying to enjoy my breakfast. If you ‘ad a camera, you could take a picture.”

She held onto the small hope that he would take the hint and look away, but similar to that bastard, Macnair only leered. “No need to get your wand in a knot” he said arrogantly. “It’s not everyday that I get to have breakfast with a pretty woman next to me.”

Slightly irked, Fleur huffed. “Do you not ‘ave a wife?” she asked, not at all curious. “If you do, I do not think she would appreciate you looking at another woman.”

“ _If_ I had a wife,” Macnair said lazily. “And I don’t think she would mind all too much, considering you’d be beneath her status wise.”

“I would pity ‘er,” Fleur retorted after another bite of porridge. “To be married to someone like you.”

Macnair only shook his head. “If you were my veela, I wouldn’t let you speak so candidly to me. But for some reason, Crouch likes you that way; the bastard. Not that it matters really.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well for starters,” Macnair began, leaning back further into his chair. “Crouch will have to get married someday, when Dumbledore and that Potter boy are gone. To a proper Pureblood witch, who will continue the family line. Maybe he’ll keep you around as a mistress or some bed warmer, someone to occupy his time with in private when his wife is busy.”

The porridge no longer tasted good after that. Her mouth suddenly dry, Fleur placed the spoon back down in the bowl. “And what if ‘e does?” she said thinly. “You think ‘e will just ‘and me over to you?”

Macnair sneered. “Maybe, or maybe not. Or his wife might decide she doesn’t want another woman in the house. I’m sure you understand how that is,” he waited for her to react, but when she didn’t, he simply continued. “And if you did manage to give him children, do you think he’d accept them? I certainly wouldn’t.”

Hence the contraceptives Narcissa had given her, Fleur mused. She still didn’t like the woman, but she found herself a bit more grateful towards her than before. The last thing she needed was for something to complicate her goal to escape. Especially something as complicated as a baby.

That didn’t seem to be his goal, either. They never had sex when she was close to ovulating; something she could only now be so appreciative for. Though she had to admit that him knowing her days was a little bit invasive. Maybe to outsiders it would make him look responsible, but not when he was the one who kidnapped and ruined her.

“’E won’t do that,” Fleur said self-assuredly.

“Sure about that?”

“Positive,” she said simply, meeting his dark gaze.

Macnair clicked his tongue. “You poor naïve thing,” when she turned to glare at him, he smiled crookedly. “If you were mine, I would take better care of you than him. I’d make you put that mouth of yours to better use.”

Fleur resisted the urge to snort. “I do not think Barty would like to ‘ear you say that,” she warned. “And I do not need ‘im to take care of me.”

“Sure you don’t,” Macnair sniggered. “However, a witch without her wand doesn’t make for someone very intimidating. Just thought you’d like to know that.”

He was right, Fleur had to acknowledge through her gritted teeth. If something happened and she ended up in a situation where the only thing she could do was run, then she would be severely outmatched. Much like the last time. She glanced back to the door by the counter and hoped that she could forgive herself one day for wishing that Barty would step through those doors. She was no damsel, but she wouldn’t deny help when she needed it.

Fleur felt her insides curl when she soon realized that the Death Eater had moved closer to her. His right arm around the back of her chair, he crowded into her slightly smaller frame. She felt his warm breath on her face, smelling the remains of tea, porridge and toothpaste. Fleur attempted to scoot her chair away further, but seeing as they were by the wall, there wasn’t very much room left to move.

“You speak so confidently of him, but I know things about Barty that you don’t,” Macnair murmured close to her ear. “I am seven years older than him; I was a Death Eater long before his scrawny arse came to join our ranks. He came with the other seventeen-year-old girls and boys eager to serve the Dark Lord. But he was the jumpiest, most nervous looking one out of all them. Practically squeezing the arm of his cousin Regulus.”

Fleur turned to him, disgusted. “I do not wish to ‘ear this,” she said stiffly. “Please move away from me.”

“We all knew of his bastard of a father, busy throwing as many of us as he could into Azkaban. We were all a little surprised to his son come to us, and quite a few were suspicious, but the Dark Lord saw right through that. What we came to see was a lonely, attention-starved boy in need of a proper father figure. That’s what he sees in our lord,” Macnair chucked to himself. “He even proved himself to be loyal after our lord brought up how he understood what it was like to have a disappointing father.”

Fleur thought of Mr. Crouch. From what she had seen of him, he didn’t leave much of an impression on her mind other than he seemed to be something of a workaholic. An accomplished Occlumens from the way he wasn’t affected by her allure, or perhaps someone who was just good at compartmentalizing their thoughts and emotions. Someone who guarded themselves very effectively, she decided upon hearing him speak in the room after the champion’s selection.

Fleur stiffened once more when she felt calloused fingers on her arm, sliding up to caress her jaw. “In all my years I have never seen someone so desperate to prove themselves,” Macnair murmured against the flesh of her cheek. “It didn’t take him long to start getting used to dark curses. And he wasn’t nearly as nervous on having fun with muggles. First one he killed was under the Imperious Curse, though in all honestly, I don’t think he was originally planning on killing them; he was only eighteen. But after that muggle died the Lestrange brothers took him out to celebrate. Our Barty lost his virginity that night to a two-knut whore. ”

Disgusted, Fleur turned her face away. His hand hardened against her jaw, and he forced her back to look in his malicious steel eyes. “I’ve always thought he was a bit unbalanced; his devotion can only be matched by Bellatrix, but it’s hard to believe that a _half-breed_ like you was able to make him infatuated for this long. I’ve studied creatures as part of my job as executioner for the Ministry, and I know full well that he could have shielded himself from your allure at any time. But he didn’t and that makes me curious to see what it is about you that makes him mad. Must be something real special that no other veela have.”

Fleur willed herself not to flinch as he inhaled the scent of her hair, bringing it to his lips before letting the strands slip through his course fingers. All she wanted to do was vomit, but she chose instead to stare defiantly back at him. “I will tell Barty about this,” she said coldly. “’E will not be pleased about your advances.”

“What advances?” Macnair leered, eyes raking over her body appreciatively. “I’m only paying you a compliment, sweetheart.”

“She means the advances you’ve been making on her for the past few minutes.”

Never before in her life had Fleur been glad to hear Barty’s voice. Macnair’s hold on her retreated, though his gray eyes still lingered on her defiant blizzard-like glare. If he was afraid of Barty, he didn’t show it. He instead faced his fellow Death Eater as if they were old friends. Barty, on the other hand, faced him with an expression she had seen before. Barty was annoyed, and fixing Macnair with a murderous glint.

“I was only paying her a compliment,” Macnair said indolently. “I meant no disrespect to you.”

Liar, Fleur thought, but she didn’t say it. Sher merely watched the scene play out, but out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Ilya had returned to the counter and now was staring at them. She glanced around. He wasn’t the only one, either. The few people who had come in for a spot of breakfast were observing the three of them curiously.

“The veela is mine. A gift to me for my services,” Barty said severely, never once looking away from Macnair. “By touching her, you show disrespect to me. Touch her again, be it in my presence or not, and you will not like what will happen. I will only warn you once.”

“Of course,” Macnair sneered. “My apologies.”

Barty nodded, apparently satisfied. He then glanced around the inn and grumbled something under his breath. “We’ve causes a scene,” he growled, walking around the table quickly and firmly grabbed Fleur by the upper arm, leading her up.

“Not really a scene,” Macnair took a look around as well. “More of a little spat, really.”

“And who is the leader of this mission? I am,” Barty glared at him. “They’re already suspicious of us. We’ve wasted enough time here, so it’s time we go.”

Macnair sneered. “Whatever you say, boss.”

As they neared the door, Fleur glanced back towards the stairs. At the bottom stood Mashka, clutching a book to her chest stared at the two of them with wide blue eyes. Fleur offered her a brief smile and the girl smiled back, giving her a wave. She barely knew the girl, but something in hear heart throbbed like the reopening of an old wound upon having to say goodbye.

Even when they were walking hurriedly down the street, passing the remaining shops and houses, Barty didn’t let go out her arm. Macnair walked a few feet away, and when Fleur glanced back go him, he smirked. She scoffed, tearing her gaze away and onto the road ahead.

“Thank you,” Fleur said to Barty lowly, well out of Macnair’s earshot. “For getting ‘im away from me.”

“You’ll have to show me how thankful you are later,” Barty replied, though the tight grip on her arm did lessen. “Don’t forget that, now.”

Barty then stopped abruptly once they had reached the edge of town and there were less people passing by. Macnair stopped beside him, looking at the thick forest that stood in front of them. Trees so tall they seemed to go on forever, Fleur noticed and narrowed her eyes. Ancient and dense too, almost like the Forbidden forest that Hogwarts students were banned from entering. However old this forest was, she was almost sure it had been here a lot longer than the village had.

“The innkeeper said that we would reach the mountains quicker if we cut through here,” Barty announced. “We can keep off the main roads and get to our destination a week early. The other two took this route as well a few days ago.”

Macnair nodded. “Then let’s go,” he said almost pleasantly. “Maybe we’ll catch up to them and give them a surprise greeting.”

Fleur didn’t know who he was talking about, but she didn’t like the way his eyes lit up malevolently. With her arm still in Barty’s, they entered the dark forest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As much as Macnair is a creep, Barty still wins the prize for being the most creepiest. I don't think that will ever change. But oh dear, what has Fleur gotten herself into? She's not happy with the arrangement, but what is a girl to do? I think if Barty wasn't able to help her or something, she would use her veela charm, but would Macnair be expecting that? Probably. So, she'll need to use whatever help she can get, even if it's from someone she hates. 
> 
> Will Barty eventually marry? Well, since he's alive in this universe he probably would have to once the war is one. He can't very well marry Fleur, even though he loves her in his very sick, demented way. Can't disgrace his family line by marrying a half-breed, you know? Disgusting, but it's something I don't believe Fleur has even thought of. Poor girl has other things to worry about.
> 
> Rusalka (rusalki in plural) is sort of the Russian version of the veela. There are some differences, as they often resemble the concept of a mermaid. But I kind of played with their mythology a bit and made them the cousins of veela. Maybe Fleur will meet some? Who knows?
> 
> On a different note, I also wrote a one shot (maybe it will be a two shot eventually) a Barty/Fleur darksoulmate!Au that I might put up if anyone is interested. If you are, let me know!
> 
> Well, that's really all for now. If you enjoyed and want to see more, leave a kudo. Or a comment if you'd like; I always enjoy those. Stay safe out there and I'll see you all next time. Bye!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is a day early, but here you all go! Chapters now will still be varying in length depending on what's happening, but I think the next few should be around 5,000 words and more. This one is around 6,000+ words, I believe. Next chapter may not be as long because it will be in a different perspective (won't say whose), but I'm still editing that chapter. 
> 
> As for the Barty/Fleur oneshot (maybe twoshot) I mentioned last chapter I will be posting, but I don't know when seeing as I'm still working out some things in it. It won't be too long, I promise for those who are interested. Rarepairs are fun to write, no matter how much this one makes zero sense, but whatever. Hell, maybe I'll write a fic with this couple where Barty isn't a complete psycopath, or a Death Eater. That would be interesting, I think. 
> 
> TW: There is a sex scene. This may not be super explicit, but there is an almost panic attack.

The forest was alive with magic. As Fleur followed her two companions, she couldn’t help but feel it enclose around her like a second layer of clothing. It buzzed along her skin as though she had been shocked. The Forbidden forest at Hogwarts did not feel the same way this forest did, she thought as she took in the impressive height of the trees. Nor as dark, she noted though that would probably change by nightfall. The forest was obviously very old, possibly even older than the forest at Hogwarts.

“All sorts of creatures live in here,” Macnair said unconcernedly, watching as Fleur kept taking in the sights around her. “Hags and werewolves. Nogtails too, I believe. And not to mention plenty of non-magic creatures.”

Fleur ignored him, opting to stare straight ahead. She had never seen a werewolf before, or a centaur, though she had read quite a bit about them. Though how much of what Macnair said was true was an entirely different matter altogether. For all she knew, this was his attempt at trying to unnerve her. Best to ignore him and focus on what she did know.

“We are not here for a textbook lesson,” Barty said, and Fleur saw him roll his eyes at his companion. “Though if there is anything we should watch out for, it’s Pogrebins.”

Fleur couldn’t recall exactly what a Pogrebin was, only that it was something she had read about in her first year of school. She did remember it liked to pretend to be a rock in order to trip the people it stalked and then devour them. It had disturbed her as a child, though certainly not as much as other creatures. She glanced over at Barty, thinking nothing could be as disturbing as him, aside from the Dark Lord.

“We will be fine,” Barty eventually said, patting her arm in an attempt of reassurance. “There is nothing to worry about, dear.”

It took every ounce of restraint she had not to slap his hand off of her, and that restraint reminded her of the promise she made. Reluctant as she was to uphold it, Fleur repeated to herself that she was a Delacour, and Delacour’s never went back on their word. If not fighting him was her end of the bargain, then so be it.

They continued walking through the woods, with the warm summer breeze ruffling their hair and clothes. It was a bit humid because of the recent rainfall, and she noticed how Macnair was sweating a bit more and Barty’s hair had acquired a bit more volume and wave. Fleur looked down at her own locks. Unaffected, as always, due to magical properties.

A few low-hanging branches snagged on the material of her shirt, and Fleur was glad for the long sleeves. She yanked her arm back, glaring at the branch as Macnair snickered behind her. Barty seemed oblivious to it all as he stared straight ahead. What he was looking for was a mystery to her and with a huff, she followed him further into the forest.

The strange thing about the forest was the small, almost invisible, road they were treading on. Between the long tree roots and stumps, Fleur could see where the dirt road was. She figured Ilya must have told Barty where to find it, and now here they were following the small dirt path that was only big enough for two people to walk side by side with each other. Twice she snickered when Macnair managed to trip over one of the roots but hid it well with her hand over her mouth. He grumbled once he regained himself and she swore she saw Barty smirk.

Briefly, Fleur recalled something her papa had told her many years ago. Around when Gabrielle was learning to walk, and he had come home from his ministry job early that night. He held Fleur in his arms, placing her on his knee as he told her stories of his youth and stories his parents had told him.

 _“All the answers you need to know, Fleur,”_ he said, pinching her on the cheek. _“Are found by following the old roads.”_

Fleur gave a soft sigh, wrapping her arms around herself as she tried not to think about her papa. Then, she stopped, suddenly very much aware of the magic humming along her skin. Twice she looked over her shoulder, expecting something to be behind her, but there was nothing. Only the faint whispers in her mind that echoed around in her skull. Not threatening; she knew what dark magic felt like. This magic was a like a cool splash of water along her heated skin, like the summer breeze that blew through her hair. If she didn’t know any better Fleur thought that someone, or something was calling her.

“Everything alright?”

Fleur nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of Barty’s voice speaking to her. Macnair had passed her, but both he and Barty had stopped walking when they realized she had become motionless.

“I am fine,” Fleur shook her head, the magic dancing in tune with hers dissipating. How odd, she supposed, but it didn’t do much good to linger on those thoughts.

“We’ll be resting soon,” Barty said once she had caught up to them. He looked to them, pointing towards the sky. “The sun sets in about an hour, and the innkeeper told me it is not safe to travel by night here. We will need time to set up camp for the night.”

To her surprise, Macnair didn’t make a scathing remark. He merely nodded his head and glanced at the trees around them. Fleur supposed it made sense that the more dangerous creatures would come out at night. She doubted even the village they recently left knew all that lived in this forest. Nor did she know how much area it covered, though she assumed quite a bit since it was leading them to their destination much more quickly.

Not too much time had passed before they stopped in a small clearing a few feet away from the trail. Fleur watched from the side as both wizards set to work; Barty placing protective enchantments around their enclosure and Macnair setting up two tents. Aside from Barty’s faint words, the area was quiet, undisturbed by what they were doing as the sun set lower in the sky.

By the time everything was set, Macnair had a fire going in a pit, his wand adjusting the flames absently. Chairs had been set around the fire and when Fleur sat down, she realized how tired she was. She didn’t eat much during breakfast, or when they took a break to have lunch. She had been walking all day and with the fire easing away the night’s creeping chill, she felt the exhaustion creep in.

“I’ll be glad when we’re out of here,” Macnair grumbled as Barty sat down in between him and Fleur. “Don’t tell me you can’t feel something watching us.”

“Probably the Dryads,” Barty answered unconcernedly. “Many of them live out in these woods, or so I was told. They won’t hurt you if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

Macnair scowled, making him look as though he had a case of sour grapes. Fleur had never seen a dryad, but if they were similar to wood nymphs, she couldn’t imagine them being much a threat. The wood nymphs at Beauxbaton’s were always nice, if not a bit mischievous if one did not appreciate their songs. If anything, they probably wouldn’t ever leave their trees unless forced to.

Barty reached into the silk drawstring back, digging around for a moment until he managed to pull out a rectangular wooden box. Upon opening it, Fleur noticed that inside were several neatly wrapped fried puff pastries, flaky and golden brown in the light of the burning fire. Barty placed the box in his lap, handing one to both Fleur and Macnair.

“The innkeeper’s wife made them last night,” Barty answered the silent question, giving Fleur a sardonic grin. “Apparently the old witch doesn’t think we’re feeding you.”

Her heart constricted at Yelena’s kindness, and as Fleur bit into the pastry, she silently thanked the woman. She would never see her again, but the fact remained that she cared enough about her health to make sure she had something to eat. Yelena was very much a stranger to her, but the act of kindness would not go unforgotten.

They weren’t bad either, Fleur thought as she tasted the savory fillings of meat, cabbage, rice and egg. Within a few minutes, it was gone, and she reached into the box next to Barty for another one. She didn’t realize she was this hungry until she was almost finished with her second pastry. They ate in complete silence, with only the crackling fire and the noise of the forest as their entertainment. The box still held plenty of pastries, but Fleur was done. Her stomach moved, not completely satisfied, but she found she could not eat anymore. Not with the way Barty was staring at her.

Whatever contents in her stomach lurched forward, and Fleur had to fight the sense of nausea from overtaking her. She knew that look; how could she not? It was time to pay up, and she was a woman of her word. Yet, every thought in her mind screamed at him to stay away from her. Even after all this time, even back at the house when she allowed him to have his way, all she could think of was to be somewhere else. For him to keep away from her so she could be in peace.

The sound of Macnair yawning loudly broke her concentration. “Well,” he began, slapping his hands on his knees and rising up. “I think I’ll retire for the night. Don’t be too loud, you hear?”

Fleur’s face flushed pink, though the light of the fire mostly concealed that. Macnair disappeared into the tent behind hind him. Within seconds the tent zipped closed and she could no longer hear him. She sat rigidly, her heart thundering in her chest.

You made a promise, Fleur again reminded herself and took in a breath of courage. It was just sex; she had done it before, so it was nothing new. Yet she still could not move an inch from where she was sitting.

“Come on now,” Barty was now standing over her, hand outstretched. “We have another long day of walking ahead of us.”

Shoving every urge to slap him away and run blindly into the woods, Fleur stood up. She did not take the hand offered to her, but she did follow him into the vacant tent. Naturally, inside it was much more spacious and allowed her to keep a certain distance from him while she collected herself. If she made it out of here in one piece, she could cry to herself about later on in private, where no one could bother her, and she could release the terrifying emotions swimming in her heart.

Inside the tent there was a small kitchen area, an area for sitting, a bathroom and off on a slightly raised platform was a bed. Nothing fancy but inviting enough that Fleur felt tempted to go sit on it. Until she saw Barty sit down, patting the space beside him in a silent request for her to sit with him. Swallowing down her pride, she moved.

Fleur sat down next to him tautly with her hands folded neatly into her lap. The trembled, much to her dismay but she would not meet his eyes. She would let him have his way, but she would not feel it. She could not feel it.

Barty took her hands into his, turning them over in observation. Finally, he sighed. “There is no need to be scared,” he said softly, kissing the shaking appendages much to her concealed disgust. “I am not going to hurt you.”

He had already done that, but she did not voice it. Fleur stared straight ahead, becoming as passive as the stones they had walked past that day on the road. Hard as it was, she would become unfeeling, just like them.

“I think we need to make a few alterations to the agreement.”

Fleur’s heart dropped to her stomach. “Why?” she asked, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from saying something too scathing.

“You are always quiet when we make love,” Barty stroked her hand, and inside, Fleur’s lungs constricted at those words. “You shut down and look at me with such passiveness. As though laying with me is simply a chore you have to do.”

His grip on her tightened and in spite of herself, Fleur flinched. His dark eyes never let her tear her gaze away as he spoke. “You’re still adjusting to your new life, so I have allowed it for the time being. But,” and he let the words hang in the air for suspense, grinning. “I don’t think that it’s going to be enough for me this time.”

Fleur didn’t say anything. She couldn’t find the words.

“So if you want my help,” Barty continued lazily, idly playing with her hair. “You’re going to have to prove to me how bad you want it.”

Caught between a rock and hard place, Fleur mulled those words around in her head. On one hand, she wanted to outright refuse what he wanted. Putting up with him was obviously not enough now, she thought miserably. The part of Fleur that wanted to preserve what little innocence she had left screamed at her not to do it. Begged her, really.

Yet, it was only sex, wasn’t it? That’s what Fleur wanted to believe, despite that darkness along her magic creeping in. When she closed her eyes, the phantom memories of his burning touch on her lingered like an open sore. She curled away from in defensively, even when it pushed at her to accept it. She wouldn’t, though. How could she?

Still, and Fleur thought back to her plan; back to her grand-maman’s words. Her veela heritage was an asset, not something to be ashamed of. If she wanted to have him completely trust her, she would have to mean it. For now, she would give him what he wanted, and he wouldn’t see the hate inside her head. She would survive and escape from him when he truly trusted her. Vengeance would be hers, in the end.

When she found her way home, then she would mourn for what she had to do. When she returned to her papa and maman, she would never let them go. She would never let little Gabrielle out of her sight. She would appreciate her freedom in a way she never hand before; just because she could. For now, she would have to wait.

“Fine,” Fleur nodded her head. “If that is what you want.”

He looked pleased. “I’m glad to hear,” he murmured against the top of her hair. “ _Ma princesse_.”

Long fingers gripped her chin lightly, and Barty tilted her head up as his lips met hers softly. It wasn’t any different really from the kisses they had shared before, Fleur thought as her lips moved against his almost mechanically. A routine she had done plenty of times before, without any traces of feelings aside from disgust and loathing.

His kiss deepened as he pressed against her more firmly. Impatiently, she thought as his fingers dangled through her hair. Barty pulled back then, his breath against her skin following in small cold puffs. “You have to mean it, darling,” he spoke against her, nipping at her upper lip almost playfully. “Come on now, show me how much you want this.”

She needed his help, and if this was the cost, for now she would pay it. His mouth was on hers again, but this time, she did not passively respond. Fleur shifted, pressing herself further into him as they locked into a dance that only they knew. Her hands cupping his face, her teeth pulled down teasingly on his lower lip, and much to her chagrin, he was delighted by this.

His tongue slipped into her mouth, meeting hers and flicking against it with that strange tick of his. His hands settling on her hips, Fleur maneuvered her body around so that she was now straddling either side of his thighs. Barty watched her as they momentarily separated, eyes like black fire with burning desire. If this were anyone else, Fleur might have felt empowered, but not with him. This was contractual and she was paying up what she had promised. She would not attach her heart to this, for after all, it did not belong to him and never would.

Barty still tasted of something completely different, not unlike the time she was under the Imperious Curse. He tasted of something dark and forbidden, though what that was she couldn’t identify. Bittersweet, she thought and then she wondered what she tasted like to him. Yet she immediately shook that thought out of her mind when something hard brushed up against the space where her limbs came together.

Barty broke the kiss, most likely for air, and to further show that she was not going to be passive during this, she trailed her lips down his. To the corner of his mouth from his jaw, placing kisses there, her teeth occasionally biting and pulling down playfully on his lip. He purred in satisfaction and inside, something in Fleur violently shook, wanting nothing more than to sock him in the face.

The white in her snarled at Fleur to kill, but she shoved it back down to the recesses of its prison. She needed to play it smart, she told the howling white fury. This wasn’t her giving up; this was her doing what she could to manipulate him. The white, however, wanted something. Though what that was she could not give to it. Not now, though perhaps one day, she would let it have what it wanted. Just not now.

For now, she was not herself. For this one moment, she turned the thought process off and focused on the task ahead of her. Fleur further buried the white rage back down to where the other colors that made her resided. Nothing burned in her except for the flame that ignited with burning light in her chest; the flame that was her will to survive, to live.

Fleur stopped momentarily, stepping back to unbutton and unzip her trousers. She felt nothing as he watched her hungrily, tongue flicking out like a serpent. She pulled her trousers down, leaving her exposed in her knickers. She kicked off her shoes, and with her trousers, she removed her socks and stepped back to him, bare feet light on the floor.

Fleur placed herself back on Barty’s lap, not resisting when he kissed her deeply as though thanking her for the brief little show. Her hands on his shoulders with Barty’s hands back on her hips, she experimentally lowered them down on his growing erection. The response was the tightening of his hands along her skin, pulling them downwards as she rocked against him. Her hands wrapped around his neck, and she wondered how easy it would be to wrap her hands around his throat and squeeze. No, she remind herself as the white strained to itch forward. No, no, that would not do her any good.

“Fuck,” Barty hissed as she raised herself back down on him. “When did you get good at this?”

“Did you not want me to be more active?” Fleur asked derisively.

“Absolutely,” Barty grinned, reaching up to unbutton her shirt, eyes further darkening with lust at her now uncovered breasts.

He threw her shirt onto the floor, burying his face into her cleavage with a ragged breath. Goosebumps raised against her skin at the warmth of his breath against her skin, leaving a wet trail in their wake. The tone of his voice raised a shiver along her spine, and she gasped with his chilled fingers found her right nipple. Placing searing kisses on the skin, he unhooked her brassiere and tossed it where her shirt now lay precariously.

The sharp jolt sent something hot to run down her thighs and between her legs when his mouth wrapped around the nipple, tongue flicking expertly at it. The other hand moved to her waist, pulling her down closer while he assaulted the bud. As much as she wanted to run, reality was all around him as her senses were sharpened by his ministrations. There was a twinge between her legs, a dull ache that Fleur immediately recognized.

As much as she didn’t want to feel pleasure in this, Fleur gave herself another reminder that this was part of the plan. Not to mention she couldn’t control how her body was going to respond to something; unwanted or nothing. She blamed her hormones, if anything else as she did her best not to disassociate from the world around her. Much as she wanted to, however.

Fleur let out a gasp when one of his fingers found its way inside her. Slipping into her knickers to slide past her now slickening folds, it was soon joined by another one, the two digits beginning to scissor against her walls very pleasantly. The heel of his palm ground lightly against her clit, and she couldn’t stop the little moans that burst past her lips.

“There’s a good girl,” Barty purred with his usual sly grin. “Getting all nice and wet, aren’t you?”

Fleur refused to answer that, giving another gasp when his fingers rubbed up against that spot. It was a little louder than the other ones, so much so that she wrapped her arms around him again, where he held her closer, his lips ghosting over her neck. Somehow he always knew where to find that spot that made her stomach pool with warmth, and the ache between her legs tingle harder. As much as she hated him, she knew he was right when he told her he knew her body well. Bastard.

She bucked up against his hand, her clit grinding against his palm when Barty inserted another finger. He pressed firmly down on her clit, leaning down to watch her with fevered eyes as her hips rode down on those dexterous fingers. “That’s it,” Barty breathed into her ear, whispering filthy things that mortified her to the core. “Merlin’s beard, you’re so fucking good at riding my hand. Bet I could get you to cum from that alone. Or maybe I’ll leave you here, on the brink, dripping wet and waiting for my cock to fill you up. Or maybe you want to sit on my face and see how hard that makes you cum.”

Shame burned in her veins, right underneath the numbness that spread over her like a heavy blanket when she let out a particularly loud moan. Yet the aching pulse of her walls beginning to tighten around him made him groan louder in response. “That’s it,” Barty murmured lecherously. “That’s it, you’re close, so fucking close.”

It wasn’t a lie; Fleur barely registered her thoughts. Energy was building up from deep inside her, throbbing and ready to burst. Her orgasm was close, so very close, she knew from the way he pressed his hand down even firmer than before, if that was possible.

Fleur came with a shuttering gasp, his fingers stilling inside her as the ache flared out across her body, leaving her heart pounding and something drip out from her. Her release was all over his hand, glistening in the light of the room and all over her inner thighs. Her walls no longer ached with need, instead they were beginning to relax, due to the rush of relief that came over. With that stupid grin, Barty placed his fingers near his mouth, licking them to her disgust.

“After all this time, you still taste like a flower,” as much as Fleur wanted to throw up, she didn’t. Barty simply licked them again. “That perfect little cunt of yours is good for a lot of things, innit?”

Barty’s hands gripped her jaw, the slick leaving a trail where he placed them and slid the fingers into her mouth without any warning. The taste of herself on her tongue was so foreign; so strange that Fleur had the sudden urge to gag on his fingers. He grinned. “Like the taste of yourself, hm?” he asked rhetorically, that grin turning into something malicious. “Your veela roots make you a natural at this.”

Then, the pressure in her mouth subsided and abruptly, she was practically tossed around onto the bed. His fingers out of her, she watched as he stuck them in his mouth Barty wasted no time in removing his robes, stripping out of his black shirt and trousers. Fleur watched unblinkingly, only turning her head when he removed his own undergarments. For some reason, she could never bring herself to look at it.

“Fuck,” Barty hissed, grabbing her roughly by the ankle and pulling her towards him. “Gotta be inside you now...”

Fleur didn’t stop him as his slender finger found the hem of her knickers yanked down her knees. He grabbed the now damp clothing, tossing it away without a second thought. He paused, tilting his head towards her in contemplation. “Bet I can get you to cum like that again,” he nodded to himself, as though praising his own thought process. “Yes, I’m sure I can get you to cum twice.”

Barty reached for one of the pillows on the bed, and Fleur lifted her hips up so that the pillow could rest right under her, elevating her hips upwards towards his leaking shaft. He inched closer, eager to get inside when she held up a hand.

“Wait,” Fleur stopped him, her hand over his chest. “Get a condom.”

“Princess-”

Fleur fixed him with a look. “Unless you want me to get pregnant, then I suggest you go get one,” she narrowed her eyes. “Well? Do you?”

Barty sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. “Bossy little thing, aren’t you?” he muttered, but there was a smile there instead of irritation.

She waited, laying there on the bed and staring up at the ceiling while he unwrapped the contraceptive. Her mind drifted away, leaving nothing but emptiness in her thoughts. Perhaps she was tired. They had been walking all day and she could still feel the exhaustion in her bones. She felt so numb to the world around her; so numb and cold, why, Fleur felt as though she could disappear into the mattress and never resurface.

Then, Fleur felt hands fasten themselves around her legs, drawing them up around a very warm and solid body. Barty, with a condom on now, stood before her with his hands gripping the undersides of her knees. She propped herself up on her elbows, her feet dangling towards the floor when Barty pushed himself in.

He groaned at the feel of her slickened walls, stopping momentarily to enjoy the feel of her. Barty did that a lot, she noticed, but those thoughts were lost when he finally began to move. Slowly, his eyes holding hers while he pushed deeper and deeper into her. With the way she was angled, it was easy for him to get in deep, his pubic bone right up against her still sensitive clit.

Fleur wasn’t sure how long he was going to last, though she assumed it wouldn’t be long due to how reedy his pants were becoming. Needy, she noted as he gripped her limbs harder. The grind of him wasn’t painful and the slide of him easier due to how wet she still was. He eyed her intensely, changing the pace of his thrusts from quick back to slow, drawing it out for as long as he could.

“My princess,” Barty praised, and she shuddered at the returning spark that started to reignite. He flicked his tongue several times, the grip on her limbs not quite bruising, but still hard enough that she couldn’t move them on her own. He panted. “My light, my Persephone…”

Well, Fleur thought absently, that was a new one. Barty had once compared himself to Hades once, claiming that like Persephone, he had dragged Fleur into his Underworld. In an even more twisted way, he had. Except Fleur was an unwilling Persephone, who didn’t pluck random flowers and preferred to keep away from dark things. Yet here she was, getting fucked by a Death Eater whose obsession for her bordered on multiple levels of terror.

Persephone loved Hades; and every version of the story Fleur had read was different. Fleur did not, and would not ever, love Barty. Not in the way he wanted her to.

There was pressure suddenly on her clit, and Fleur jolted forward at the sensation. Barty was leaning forward, one hand holding her right leg and the left rubbing down in a back and forth motion on her clit. The bed squeaked with the movements, and she was not able to stop a moan from escaping her. Barty leered. “You can be as loud as you want, darling,” he grunted. “I placed a _Muffliato_ charm on here. Macnair won’t hear us.”

He gave one hard, accentuated thrust that made her cry out in surprise. He seemed pleased. “That’s more like it,” he smirked. “Come on now, don’t be shy.”

He was pushing into her with the same drawn out gyrations that made her body thrum hot with arousal. “Fuck,” Fleur groaned, wishing deep down that all her senses would just shut down, so she didn’t have to feel anything, but her body subconsciously tightened around him.

“That’s it, that’s it,” Barty panted, his pants even shriller now. “Come on, darling, scream for me. Let me hear you.”

Fleur didn’t know what was more mortifying: climaxing under the Imperious Curse or in this contractual setting. Was it still unwilling if she was actively participating? Even if every part of her wanted nothing more than to keep away from him. Despite needing him to keep alive in the Dark Lord’s ever-changing circle of power.

“Let go, darling, let go,” Barty released his hand off her clit, grinding into her with more erratic movements. “You’re gonna cum on my cock, and we’ll see how loud that makes you scream!”

She was close, Fleur realized as her clit still pulsed from his previous motions. She shivered, an overwhelming feeling of warmth between her legs. Similar to before, it heated up the rest her body slowly. Disgusting, she thought as her hips began to grind up and no matter how hard she muffled her mouth, she couldn’t stop the moans. Inwardly she cursed her loud lungs, wishing they would shrink so she could have some semblance of peace.

And then, what she was dreading happened. At once her body seized around him, the warmth seizing up and then expanded to the rest of her body. “ _Putain!_ ” Fleur shouted but wished she hadn’t with the way his eyes lit up with pleasure. Her thighs trembled with the aftershock and he gripped them so hard his knuckles turned white.

“Fuck yes,” Barty groaned as he watched her release drip down her thighs and onto his cock. “That’s it, baby, there you are.”

He was hardly coherent now; much less composed than he normally was, but Fleur didn’t mind as she completely laid flat on the bed. Her body spent and relaxed in a way she wished yet again that it wasn’t as she floated from this world. To a place much nicer than this one, where there was no Barty, no Voldemort and no pain.

Why, how could she not recognize it? It was home, Fleur realized at once with a large grin. This had all been some strange dream; nothing more than a nightmare and quickly she raced up the front steps of her yard. She threw open the door, immediately in her maman’s embrace. She could smell the lingering scents of her lilac perfume and her shampoo, but to Fleur, it smelled like home.

“What is this about?” her maman asked, stepping back though her hands remained on Fleur’s shoulders. “You were only at the market collecting some ingredients for me.”

A tear rolled down Fleur’s face, her maman then frowning and wiped it away quickly. “My darling, what is wrong? Are you ‘urt? Did something ‘appen?”

“Non,” Fleur shook her head, and once more threw herself into her maman’s arms. “I am ‘ome, maman. I am just ‘appy to be ‘ome!”

Then at once, her maman disappeared. Abruptly Fleur was pulled to a world she did not want to be in when the Death Eater standing over her came with a shout. Barty gripped her legs so hard that tiny finger sized bruises were beginning to form on her thighs. She watched, still breathing heavy as he rode out his release, still pushing inside her with his chest heaving and his voice catching in his throat. His knees came to rest on the bed, his forearms supporting him when he collapsed and loomed over her like a hunter who had finally cornered its prey.

Barty leaned down further to capture her lips lazily. Numbly Fleur responded, the emotions still repressed so deep it felt as though she were high. He stopped moving, kissing her while he began to soften inside her. She shivered as something else, something familiar, stirred in the deep pits of her chest. He was still inside her and she couldn’t _stand_ it.

Fleur needed him out of her, she thought as the world sharpened back into focus. Her stomach churned violently. This was not a want; this was something she _needed_ or there would be trouble. She closed her eyes, as though she were about to vomit, but she took deep breaths. The fleeting sense to run in her making her legs twitch in response. This pain of having him inside her was not anything she hadn’t felt before, she realized dismally. She felt it almost every time they had done this, and every time afterwards she needed to go somewhere he wouldn’t follow and scrub herself _clean._

However, she was too tired to truly focus on that now. As she took in deep breaths, it receded back to the corners of her mind. Never truly gone, Fleur knew and almost sighed in relief when Barty slowly pulled out of her. At once, she felt empty and she reveled in it. They lay next to each other, neither one saying anything as they both stared up at the ceiling.

And then, Barty had to ruin it by speaking.

“I wasn’t supposed to fall in love with you,” Barty said, his voice not at its usual volume, though it carried the same fatigue she felt.

“What?” Fleur asked wearily, not even turning her head towards him.

Similarly, Barty continued to stare up at the ceiling. “I was supposed to carry out my mission at Hogwarts and return to my master with Potter vanquished,” he took another deep breath. “But I couldn’t leave there without you. Couldn’t bear it if I didn’t have you all to myself.”

“I am not a trinket,” she found herself saying, her breathing slowly returning to normal. “I didn’t ask for you to kidnap me.”

“Didn’t know when I would see you again,” Barty turned over to her now, his dark eyes soft. “So I did what I had to do to make sure you’d become mine.”

“Well congratulations, it worked,” Fleur grumbled, with an edge behind her voice. “You can do whatever you want to me, but I still don’t love you.”

Barty gave a short laugh. “I’m not an idiot, dear. I don’t expect you to love me right away,” if this was his idea of pillow talk, Fleur was unimpressed. “I am a patient man, and I am sure that you will come around eventually. I wasn’t lying when I said we are a part of each other now.”

“You are not a part of me,” Fleur murmured, wanting nothing more than to curl up and fall asleep. Yet at the same time, the dark sliver pressed up against her, wanting her to relax in its embrace. She ignored it. “And you ‘ave a funny way of showing love.”

Barty sighed. “It’s not as though I had great role models to look up to,” he said ruefully, and if he was expecting sympathy, he wouldn’t get any from her. “My mother wanted me to find someone to love, and unexpectedly, I did. Every part of you, from your stubborn pride to your unyielding capacity to love, I fell for it in spite of myself.”

Fleur groaned. “Stop being romantic. It ‘as and never will suit you.”

“That may be true,” Barty sat up, and she heard the distant sound of the condom coming off and the impact it made when it hit the waste bin nearby. “I will keep you safe from what is to come and believe me darling, it will. And I did promise to protect you from it, and I say this without a doubt in my mind.”

Fleur swallowed thickly, not even caring how she was still very much exposed to him. “I will never want you the same way you desire me.”

Barty glanced over his shoulder as he ruffled through the bag to find their sleep clothes. “You will,” he said confidently. “In time, but you will come to embrace me.”

“I won’t.”

“Sunshine,” and there was that stupid other little nickname he only used in cases like this. She glared as he chuckled, still holding her gaze reverently. “Light and dark go together. As much as you denying wanting me, you can’t deny that you need me. Otherwise you wouldn’t have asked for my protection.”

Fleur ultimately said nothing, and he turned away from her once more. Haughtily, she removed herself from the bed and made her way over to the small bathroom. It was nothing special. Just a toilet, sink and a shower, but she sat on the toilet and stared at her reflection in the mirror.

The darkness still etched at the traces of her magic; at her very being, but she wouldn’t let it have what it wanted. She wouldn’t, and it knew this. It whispered at her, brushing against her as though it were a Lethifold attempting to suck her away. What it wanted; she knew without having to guess.

It wanted her acceptance, but once again, Fleur pushed it back. She wouldn’t accept it; no matter how much it wanted her to. Maybe if she were in moral peril, but she doubted that would happen. She only needed Barty for his help in surviving this mission. Her need for his protection and Barty’s need and love for her were two different things. She would never need _him_ ; not in the same consuming way he desired her .

That, Fleur shook her head back, that she was sure of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, this way to the bleach bath folks! *leads everyone to the bathtub*
> 
> I would like to know that while technically this could read as consent, it's still dubious at best because it's part of a sketchy kind of agreement. You could argue that both partners are willing, but from the way Fleur reacts, subtle and not, it's a bit in the gray area as far as right now. If it wasn't in place, I would not write this off as mutual consent. Naturally I would love to kick Barty back to Azkaban, but for those wondering if Fleur's life is going to get easier, I can say right now: No. Will it at some point? Maybe, but we're not that far ahead yet. 
> 
> The creatures I mentioned such as the Pogrebin and the Nogtail are native beasts found in Russia. You can check them out on the Harry Potter wiki page. Dryads are from Greek mythology (obviously) and Rusalki I mentioned previously are Russian. All other creatures mentioned can be found all over the world. Personally, I would love to find moon calves and befriend them all. *Sigh* But life is not fair.
> 
> The food Yelena made for them are Pirozhki, a traditional Russian stuffed bun that can be filled with various fillings. I first heard of them from an anime Yuuri on Ice and they sound absolutely delicious. 
> 
> French Translation:  
> Putain: means fuck, but I believe it can also mean whore. If that's incorrect, please let me know!
> 
> Thanks again for reading! Your support has really made me want to continue this story and I can't thank you enough ^^ If you would like, leave a comment or bookmark. Kudo if you'd really like to and I will see you all next time! Please, please stay safe out there!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I'm back again with another chapter! I hope you all have had a good week and are staying safe out there. This chapter is pretty exposition heavy, so I apologize in advance about that. We are also in Harry's perspective in this chapter (welcome back Harry!) so we can see how he's doing before his trial.
> 
> I am still technically following canon, but obviously things are different. I think someone asked if there will be a war, and of course there will! We can't have Voldemort just come back and just hang out with his employees. That would be rather anticlimactic. Since we're in the Order of the Phoenix part, we won't get into more of the heavy stuff till we get towards the end of the OoTP and to the Half-Blood Prince.
> 
> Fun fact, the Half Blood Prince is my least favorite in the series, but the Goblet of Fire is my favorite. Tell me what's yours if you'd like!
> 
> This isn't super relevant, but I would totally be down for doing a series rewrite of this ship where Barty never became a Death Eater. How would this work? How much of canon would be changed? If you have thoughts, let me know or message me it on Tumblr.
> 
> Well, happy readings! I'll see you all at the end with more notes.

Harry awoke on the morning of August 9th with his stomach rolling at the reminder that it was Monday, and in exactly three more days, he would go to trial. He glanced over at the clock on the wall. It was five thirty in the morning, much too early for him to be up, but there was no going back to sleep now. In the bed beside him Ron snored away, completely oblivious to Harry.

Harry could only guess that he was awake so early because of nerves. He never could sleep when he was nervous and now was definitely a time where he felt on edge. No matter how much Mrs. Weasley kept them busy with cleaning, she couldn’t stop him from laying awake at night and thinking abut how he was going to be expelled. Even with everyone’s confidence that he would be fine, he could see the worry that lingered in the dark recess of their eyes.

Harry rolled over in bed, reaching for his glasses. There was no going back to sleep now, so he might as well do something productive. He tiptoed across the room to not wake Ron, and carefully got dressed. Stumbling around in the dark, Harry accidentally stubbed his toe against the wall rather hard and grimaced tightly in pain. He eventually managed to get into a baggy t-shirt and jeans. He carefully opened the door and walked downstairs, keeping mind not to look at the heads of the house-elves as he walked by.

The whole house, in Harry’s opinion, looked eerier at night. As though he had just entered a haunted house, only everything in it wanted him out. Even though it was early morning, the sun had not yet risen, and the house remained unnaturally quiet as Harry descended down the stairs.

Harry stepped into the finally doxy-free parlor, taking a look out the window. Heavy black clouds covered the sky, bringing the promise of another rain shower. Sighing, Harry stepped away from the window and towards the kitchen. He wondered if Mrs. Weasley was up yet. If she wasn’t, then it would give him a moment to sit at the table and think. He couldn’t focus on really anything these days except for the troubling thoughts in his head.

Yet as Harry entered the door to the kitchen, he noticed that a light was on and he suddenly felt rather silly for thinking that Mrs. Weasley wouldn’t be around yet. Always up before dawn, Mrs. Weasley with her many children was always wide awake and around before anyone else. Harry could hear her working around in the kitchen, preparing breakfast and speaking very quietly. Not to herself, Harry realized immediately as he stepped closer to the door. There were voices, two distinct voices that he didn’t recognize.

The moment Harry entered the kitchen, all conversation stopped. He was very much aware of the three sets of eyes that swiveled in his direction. Mrs. Weasley immediately greeted him with a smile that seemed more forced than usual. “Harry dear, you’re up early. Breakfast isn’t ready yet, but you are more than welcome to stay down here in the kitchen with us.”

At the word “us”, Harry turned his attention back to their guests. He nearly jumped, taken aback at the sight of Fleur Delacour sitting at the table. However, Harry thought dismally, that couldn’t be right. Fleur was missing, and the woman sitting in front of him was clearly not a young adult. The woman next to her even older. Both of them cast that same eerily silver glow that Fleur did. Harry took a wild guess at assuming they were her family, though he couldn’t see why they here, and before six in the morning.

“ _Bonjour,_ ‘Arry,” the younger of the women spoke, and Harry felt stupid for not recognizing her as Fleur’s mother. She had the same features as her eldest daughter, but now she seemed paler, as though all the life had been drained from her. Her blue eyes appeared dull in the light of the kitchen.

“Hello,” Harry responded back, taking the seat across from her. “You’re Fleur’s mother, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” the woman nodded, apparently surprised that he remembered. “I did not get to introduce myself then, but my name is Apolline. This is my maman, Adora.”

Harry looked towards the old woman, and thought that despite being a grandmother, she really didn’t look at that old. Her silver hair was still as shiny as her daughter and granddaughters’, but even more silver than theirs due to her age. She sat straight, like a queen and her deep sapphire blue eyes held wisdom Harry had seen on only a handful of other people.

Adora smiled at him. ‘’Ow do you do?” she asked, her voice heavy with her accent. “Our Fleur told us a lot about you.”

Of course she had, but Harry was unsurprised. He imagined that Fleur sent letters to her family exclaiming that a “little boy” was to compete in a tournament. The very same tournament that Barty Crouch Jr. put him in under the guise of someone he thought he could trust. The thought of it sent a new wave of fresh anger to course through his body. Fleur was gone, possibly dead now, and Harry couldn’t do a thing about it.

Just like how he couldn’t save Cedric, Harry thought miserably.

“It is not your fault, ‘Arry,” Apolline gracefully reached out, her well-manicured hand wrapping around Harry’s. “It is our fault for not recognizing that man as an impostor. I should ‘ave noticed while I was there that Moody wasn’t who ‘e said ‘e was.”

“How do you know Moody?” Harry asked curiously.

“’E is a member of the Order,” Apolline responded easily, as though this were common knowledge to all outsiders. “And ‘is accomplishments are known by many outside of England.”

“I remember when ‘e caught Evan Rosier,” Adora added, oddly satisfied. “That family ‘as brought nothing but shame and misfortune for decades now.”

Apolline eyed her mother warily, but Adora did not seem to mind. Harry wondered vaguely what her issue was with that family, but he let it go when Apolline spoke. “My Louis was not able to come ‘ere. I told ‘im that ‘e needed to stay in France and take care of our Gabrielle. The past few weeks ‘ave not been kind to us, as you may ‘ave already guessed.”

“She was nice,” Harry said, hoping to ease them somewhat. “And brave, too. She didn’t hesitate for a second when she faced that dragon.”

Apolline smiled in the way he had only seen Mrs. Weasley do when she talked about her children. “Fleur is, ‘ow do you English say it? Pig-‘eaded,” she stumbled over the words, but she continued on when Harry nodded. “And she ‘as a tendency to ‘ave ‘er foot in ‘er mouth. But I am glad you speak kindly of ‘er, without ‘aving to mention ‘er veela nature.”

Adora nodded. “I taught my girls to never apologize for being a veela,” her deep blue eyes shone with pride. “They ‘ave no reason to be ashamed. Yet so many try to, so many try to bring my girls down.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably, glancing over to Mrs. Weasley. He knew she was listening by the way she looked at them from the corner of her eye, but she did not speak. She remained focused on making breakfast, eyeing the bacon she was frying with absolute scrutiny.

Harry turned back to the two veela before him. “Fleur mentioned that the core of her wand comes from the hair of a veela,” he looked to Adora. “Your hair, I think she said.”

Adora smiled fondly. “All my granddaughters’ wands ‘ave a strand of my ‘air in it. So do my daughters,” she gestured toward Apolline, who flourished her wand absently. “It is a privilege to be able to ‘ave a veela give ‘er ‘air so easily, but for my girls, I did so willingly.”

Apolline sighed. “We still ‘ave Fleur’s wand. It is at ‘ome right now, waiting for ‘er to return. I think it senses ‘er missing.”

“Senses her missing?” Harry raised his eyes. “But it’s just a wand; it doesn’t have a mind of its own.”

Adora shook her head, her sheet of silver hair drawing Harry’s attention. “I am sure your Monsieur Ollivander would give you a good counter argument for that,” Adora held her gaze sternly. “But there is, dear ‘Arry, a lot about veela that you do not know.”

Harry opened his mouth to respond, when a noise from behind the kitchen door broke his train of thought. Ron, yawning and stretching his arms walked into the kitchen, Hermione not far behind in a pink bathrobe rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. Upon seeing the two new guests, Ron’s face turned bright red.

Hermione sighed. “Honestly,” she sat down next to Harry; her face now slightly pink as well. “I didn’t know we were going to have visitors this early, otherwise I would have gotten dressed.”

Apolline dismissed that with a wave of her hand. “It is no matter, we ‘ave only been ‘ere for a little while. You are ‘Ermione, yes?

Hermione gawked. “You know who I am?”

“Of course, Fleur told us about you,” Apolline sounded amused, and then glanced over to Ron. “And about the boy who shouted at ‘er asking if she would like to go to the ball with ‘im.”

Harry noticed Mrs. Weasley slightly smile and give her youngest son a fond look that Ron completely missed. Ron’s face was now a deep red, and Hermione had to stiffen her giggles with her hand. Harry looked from her to Ron in confusion. “What are you two doing up?” he asked, and Hermione stopped giggling at once. “It’s not even six yet.”

“Could say the same for you,” Ron retorted, taking the seat on Harry’s left. “You weren’t exactly quiet when getting dressed. I could hear you running into stuff on your way out the door.”

“I heard you when you ran into the wall,” Hermione said matter o’ factly. “It was pretty loud; I was surprised it didn’t wake Ginny.”

Hermione then turned back to their two guests, and nearly blushed again. “You’re Fleur’s family,” she started politely. “Her mother and grandmother, right?”

“My name is Apolline,” Apolline said pleasantly, not seeming to mind having to introduce herself again. “And this is my maman, Adora.”

Hermione nodded her head. “ _Enchanté_ ,” she said, earning a look from both Harry and Ron.

Apolline smiled, and even Adora looked at the fifteen-year-old witch approvingly. “ _Le plaisir est pour moi_.”

“ _Parlez-vous Français_?" Adora asked impressively.

“ _Je parle un peu de François_ ,” Hermione answered easily before switching back to English. “But not nearly enough to hold a better conversation, I’m afraid.”

Apolline tossed back head, allowing her hair to ripple in the light of the kitchen. “Ah, but your French is very good,” she smiled kindly at Hermione, who was now blushing pink from the praise. “You will ‘ave to forgive me if my English is not.”

“What are you doing here? Away from France, I mean,” to Harry and Hermione’s surprise, Ron spoke up, his face now only slightly pink. “Have you come to work with the Order?”

Glancing over to Mrs. Weasley, Harry noticed her stiffen at the word. Though she kept her focus on the sizzling bacon, she eyed the five of them out the corner of her eye. Apolline must have noticed this too, for she remained quiet for a few moments, mulling over what she could tell them without earning Mrs. Weasley’s ire. Adora appeared perfectly nonplussed, sipping at her tea with an air of grace Harry supposed only a grandmother could have. Not that he had met very many grandmothers, of course.

“As you can probably guess, we are ‘ere to look for Fleur,” Apolline began very carefully, her face pensive. “We ‘ave been looking for my daughter since the end of June, but ‘ave ‘ad no such luck. Until Professor Dumbledore met up with us and told us to go to the ‘eadquarters of the Order.”

“Professor Dumbledore spoke with you?” Harry asked, and he couldn’t stop that awful twinge in his gut. Dumbledore would rather speak to two foreign witches than with him? Harry felt bad as soon as he thought that, though that twisting in his stomach did not recede.

“Yes,” Adora answered. “’E believes that our Fleur is not dead. Your Ministry will not ‘elp us, and ours is convinced she is dead as well. For weeks now it ‘as been myself and Apolline searching England for Fleur. My other daughter Artemia and ‘er oldest daughters are searching France. Until now, very few ‘ave wanted to ‘elp our family.”

At once, the anger in Harry died down into a simmer, and the guilt came back at full force. He was still angry at Dumbledore, and still a bit irritated with Ron and Hermione, but he tried to push that to the back of his mind. He had secretly hoped there would be some news about Fleur, or that there were Aurors out looking for her, but to hear that there was no one except her family just didn’t sit right with Harry. That anger came right back, and he curled his fists under the table to keep from reacting.

“So Professor Dumbledore told us to contact Alastor Moody,” Apolline continued as Adora fell silent. “’E told us that if anyone could find the man who took my daughter, it is ‘im. So my maman and I will do what we can to ‘elp the Order in the meantime. We will not stop until we ‘ave our Fleur back.”

“You want to help the Order?” Harry asked abruptly, not even caring if he sounded rude. “How? I thought there weren’t any Death Eaters in France.”

Both women flinched at the word “Death Eaters”, but if they took offense, they didn’t show it and remained perfectly composed. Adora pressed her lips together firmly. “I may be an old woman, but I do know ‘ow to use magic.”

“I didn’t mean-”

She held up her hand. “I know you mean no offense,” the old woman said calmly. “There are many things people assume about veela. Until only a few decades ago, half-blooded children of veela and other creatures were not even allowed to attend Beauxbatons. That law was finally abolished in 1954 when Madame Maxime attended Beauxbatons. Though from what I ‘ave ‘eard, the reputation of the giants is even worse now thanks to You Know Who.”

Harry immediately thought of Hagrid, who had been allowed to attend Hogwarts despite being half-giant. Though he supposed that was met with some criticism; the same for when Lupin became their professor. He couldn’t imagine what that would have been like, and when he looked to Ron, it was clear the other boy felt the same. Hermione was the only one who seemed unsurprised, and her brown eyes glinted with disgust.

“As you can see, my maman was very proud when my sister and I attended Beauxbatons,” Apolline said, and next to her, Adora beamed with pride. The first half-veela to ever attend, in fact. And now of course, no one thought twice when my daughters and nieces began school.”

Adora sighed, eyeing the wand sticking out of Apolline’s pocket. “That’s why both my daughters and all my granddaughters ‘ave one of my ‘airs as their wand core. It is a privilege to ‘ave a veela ‘air in a wand.”

“So they’re custom made wands,” Ron said, almost enviously. Harry looked away, trying not to think about his own small fortune. Aside from Dudley’s old clothes and used up toys when they were younger, Harry had never been poor and made fun of because of that. Custom made wands were no laughing matter, either, due to their expense. Mrs. Weasley eyed Ron sharply, and the freckled boy said no more on that subject.

Apolline, obviously catching on, changed the subject. “As my maman was saying before, people assume many things about veela. Textbooks ‘ave written that we charm men with our own magic, making them seem like they’re under a trance.”

“But that’s what veela magic does,” Hermione interrupted. “I’ve seen it, and I read about it in _Magical Beings throughout Europe_ during our fourth year.”

Adora stared down at her with more coolness than the warmth she had displayed earlier. “My dear,” she said so coolly that even Mrs. Weasley turned around. “Do you think that book was written by someone who ‘as actually been around veela? Or someone who ‘as simply met one veela and then made an assumption?”

Hermione turned almost as red as Ron’s hair, but she refrained from speaking. Adora shook her head, though she didn’t look as frosty as before. “Like we ‘ave said, veela magic is a bit different from ordinary magic. We do not simply “enchant” men and make women jealous, it is simply ‘ow your magic reacts to ours.”

Harry blinked. “What do you mean?”

Adora took another sip of tea, taking a moment to collect her thoughts. Finally, she put the cup back down and faced the three of them. “Veela magic earns a reaction from people, and in particular, men seem to be the most sensitive to it,” Hermione nodded at this, though she stopped when Adora spoke again. “Our magic influences others in a sort of Legilimens, though I will say that we do not go around reading minds and such.”

At that, Ron seemed to relax, Harry noticed with amusement.

“As veela, we can sense the emotions in people and shift them towards ourselves, thereby becoming the focus. Allure is the best word people ‘ave for it, and while it is not inaccurate, it is not very informative. We channel these emotions into song and dance, and though this attraction seems to be a key element, it is not the only one. When we utilize these emotions, we are in a sense, able to manipulate the thought process into what we desire.”

Harry recalled the World Cup at the end of last summer. He remembered the heat of the crowd and the racing broomsticks, but then he remembered the dancing veela. How their hair shimmered in the light and the way they moved put him in a sort of dream-like state. At that moment, he wanted to be with the veela. He wanted what they wanted, which had been for Bulgaria to win.

“This ability is prominent for at least a few generations,” Apolline began serenely. “With most veela, anyway.”

“Most veela?” Hermione asked, just as confused as Harry and Ron.

Apolline and Adora shared a look. The older of the two women crossed her hands together in front of her anxiously. “My maiden name is Delalune,” she paused when Hermione made a noise of recognition but carried on when the girl said nothing. “And we can trace our family line down for more than a thousand years.”

Hermione, despite it being still rather early in the morning, was buzzing with energy. “I’ve heard about you,” she said in amazement. “You stopped one of Grindelwald’s wizards in the battle that freed France.”

Adora smiled. “Yes, I was there. I saved my beloved ‘usband, Damien from being mercilessly killed while he lay on the ground severely injured. I placed myself in front of the wizard and made ‘im leave by-”

Ron frowned, interrupting her. “You told him to leave. Just like that?”

“Ron!” Hermione hissed disapprovingly.

Adora continued, ignoring the interruption. “My family, since we can trace our line so far back, remember that we ‘ave abilities that some do not or cannot fully utilize. We are descendants from the very first veela, Ralitsa, and therefore ‘er power remains in us,” she paused again, taking in their reactions. “The wizard was taken aback by my presence, and I took that moment to sing. I thank the stars that there was no one else nearby to stop me at the time, but my song worked. The man was too overcome by emotion that ‘e dropped ‘is wand and was subsequently captured afterwards.”

“You sang a song,” Harry tried to wrap his head around this, and while he understood that veela could use their songs to influence people, he wondered why this was now important to know. “And influenced him not to kill your husband. I get that, but what does that have to do with your family?”

Adora smiled warmly. “Deep within our magic, the knowledge is there. The songs; the emotion behind them, they’re all there. We do not carry on Ralitsa’s memories and no veela will ever be as powerful as ‘er, but we do carry on ‘er inner power. As ‘er direct descendants, if we are in the right mindset, we can use that power to suit our own purposes. I used one when saving my Damien’s life. There is power in words, young ones. If used right, they can be your greatest weapons.”

“Have you ever used that power again?” Hermione asked carefully.

“Non,” Apolline shook her head. “Using that power comes at a great cost; we are not as powerful as our ancestor, so it is often un'eard of a veela using it more than once. We can use our allure to influence, to bring ‘appiness, even ‘eal the injured, all through our magic. But the use of the inner power can be dangerous, even fatal. This is something those books will not tell you because as we said earlier, people underestimate our abilities based on our appearances.”

The three of them shifted uncomfortably, but despite this, Ron was brave enough to ask another question. “So, is it just Ralitsa’s songs that carried that power or can it be any song?”

“Any song,” Adora answered gently. “Be it Ralitsa’s or one of our own, any song can be amplified if the inner power is used. Any dance as well. It all depends on ‘ow much magic we are putting in.”

“Since other magic reacts to ours, we are also quite sensitive,” Apolline added. “Sometimes oversensitive. Since we can sense others magic, it affects us too. Your magic is bright and youthful; we see good in you. But we can sense the bad in others, though if they are applying their Occlumency we will not sense it. This applies to all veela, I should add.”

“Yes,” Adora agreed. “There are ways to be immune to a veela’s magic. If someone is not attracted to women, then our magic will not work. Even women who are ‘omosexual will be affected by our magic.”

“What is Occlumency?” Harry asked suddenly.

“The act of closing your mind to that of a Legilimens,” Hermione answered easily. “Legilimency is sort of like mind reading, but not quite.”

“Exactly,” Apolline said approvingly. “Some use it around us often when we are near. It is normal for people with stronger wills to be more resistant to our magic. Those who are experiencing romantic feelings for others will not be as affected, or not affected at all.”

Harry thought immediately of Cho, and his heart skipped a few beats. Then, he thought of Mr. Weasley, who hadn’t been affected at all by the dancing veela at the world cup. Had he been using Occlumency or was he so in love with Mrs. Weasley that the veela just didn’t affect him. Harry looked back towards Mrs. Weasley, hoping it was the latter of the two guesses.

“And I should remind you that we cannot turn our magic off and on,” Apolline warned cautiously. “It is apart of us our whole lives; made even more powerful when we reach maturity at about seventeen to eighteen years of age.”

That explained why so many boys (and Harry swore a few girls, too) could not take their eyes off Fleur. From what little he had seen of Gabrielle; Harry never saw the young girl get as many looks as her older sister. He figured that meant Gabrielle hadn’t quite grown into her magic just yet. Hermione seemed to have the same train of thought.

“So veela don’t come into full power till late teens?” Hermione asked.

“Not till around seventeen to eighteen,” Apolline answered. “Our Fleur will be nineteen this September. Eighteen is a celebrated time in our family. We were going to ‘ave a grand party for ‘er this July, since we couldn’t do it on ‘er birthday last year. We were going to tell 'er more about our family as it is tradition, but with all that ‘as ‘appened…”

“So, I have a question,” Ron diffused the awkward silence, much to Harry’s relief. “We are fairly certain it was Crouch Jr. who took her, and let’s say he was practicing Occlumency, why then go to the trouble of kidnapping Fleur?”

Hermione nodded in agreement. “Occlumency requires someone to repress their thoughts, emotions, and memories from someone who knows Legilimency. Adding a faux layer of mentality is difficult work for advanced Occlumency, which requires of lot of emotional and mental discipline,” Hermione paused to take a breath. “Unless he was just really good at compartmentalizing his thoughts, knowing what to keep hidden and such.”

“That’s still a big risk,” Ron frowned. “Except of course, I doubt Dumbledore goes around reading professors’ minds all day. Still though, he could have really messed up his plan by taking her.”

Apolline and Adora were quite pale still, but Harry watched as their faces lit up with interest. Adora especially, but Apolline’s frown was tight and something anxious flickered in her expression. No, Harry thought, she was anxious already and this seemed to be something of recollection. Her eyes then went wide, and Harry almost thought he was looking at two immensely blue sapphires.

“I knew ‘im,” Apolline said hoarsely, something akin to horror crossing her face. “I knew ‘im, I just never thought…”

“You knew him?” Ron asked incredulously, Adora’s expression mimicking his.

Apolline rested her head in her hands. “I can’t believe…’ow could I ‘ave forgotten? It ‘as been so long, oh I feel so stupid for not making the connection sooner. I ‘ave known ‘im since ‘e was a boy in the ministry. Louis used to be friends with ‘is father all those years ago.”

“You knew Barty Jr.?” Harry asked in shock. “Back before Voldemort-”

Everyone at the table jumped in surprise. Ron let out an undignified squawk, and Adora nearly spilt her tea across her gray silk shirt. Apolline seemed shocked that Harry would even think of saying the name, and Harry almost regretted it too with the way Mrs. Weasley turned around.

“Harry,” Mrs. Weasley, for the first time in a while, spoke with her face a sickly sort of white. “If you wouldn’t say that name, please.”

It was just a name, Harry grumbled to himself, but he didn’t want to upset anyone further no matter how stupid they were all being. Apolline, finally getting a grip on herself, forced herself to take a deep breath.

“Oui,” Apolline began with a shaking voice. “Louis and Monsieur Crouch Sr. were friends for a long time. Louis ‘ad to go to London on international business and I was invited to go along. That was when we left Fleur with you, maman,” Apolline said quickly to her mother. “It was a bit dangerous considering You know Who just fell and the Ministry was a mess. When we met ‘im, I never would ‘ave thought ‘e was a Death Eater. ‘E was so polite; so charming. I think ‘is father was wanting Louis to introduce him to a job in France, but I am sure you all know that didn’t ‘appen.”

“Yeah,” Ron nodded, and then frowned again. “Wait, why did he go to Azkaban?”

Harry shifted awkwardly. He had promised Dumbledore not to mention to anyone about Neville’s parents, and wasn’t about to break that promise. As much as he hated keeping things from Ron and Hermione, it was a bit satisfying that they were the ones for once without information. Still, the reminder of what had happened to Frank and Alice Longbottom was enough to put him off telling them.

“I think that’s enough for now,” Mrs. Weasley said, with an air of finality that no one dared question. Apolline and Adora seemed to sense it too, for they kept quiet. Mrs. Weasley smiled, though it seemed a bit forced. “Probably best I get the others up now; we’ve got a big day of cleaning ahead of us. We got another room to de-doxify.”

Ron groaned, and even Hermione didn’t look terribly excited about clearing out another room full of those annoying creatures. Apolline and Adora didn’t look bothered, and Fleur’s mother stood up. “Please, Molly,” she began kindly. “Let us ‘elp.”

Mrs. Weasley gawked. “But you have just arrived! And the cleaning is more of our work right now, and-”

“We will ‘elp wherever we can,” Apolline said firmly. “We are not above ‘ousework. Morgana knows ‘ow many times my maman made me de-gnome her vegetable garden as a child.”

Ron grimaced, and Harry couldn’t help but grin at the seemingly daily chore the Weasley children did back at the Burrow. Mrs. Weasley stared at Apolline for a second, face still pink, but then she nodded with her smile much softer than before. “Well, if you would like to,” she said, and then she turned to Harry, Ron and Hermione. “You three might as well start setting up for breakfast. The others will be down soon.”

The three of them set to work the second Mrs. Weasley disappeared. Ron was just about to set the silverware down when Apolline gently removed it from him. “I’ll take care of that,” she said pleasantly. “You go ‘elp ‘Ermione with the plates.”

Ron, too dumbstruck to tell her no, took off to where Hermione was gathering plates without a word. Hermione laughed under her breath and gave Ron an exasperated look. Harry, grinning as he set out glasses for each plate, grinned as the tense mood lifted. In no time, the slightly cramped long wooden table was full of eggs, bacon, toast, kippers, and pitchers of coffee and pumpkin juice.

How many were in the house, Harry didn’t know, but he assumed quite a few since Mrs. Weasley had prepared quite a bit of food. The second he thought that, Tonks came down, her bubblegum pink hair a mess and she was rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. “Mornin’ Harry,” she half spoke, half-yawned as she blindly reached for the coffee.

Ginny was along right afterwards, taking a seat next to Hermione, who immediately began telling Ginny about the two veela women sitting in the room. Lupin followed not long after Sirius, and Harry felt his mood pick up even more at the sight of his godfather.

Apolline was setting down the last of the cutlery when Fred and George walked in, both of them stopping at the sight of her. Fred then turned to Ron, pretending to be aghast. “Ron,” he sounded so scandalized, and Ron glared back at his brother. Fred just grinned. “You’re making this lovely young lady do your work? Have you no shame?”

Apolline smiled, and when she laughed, it took off the added stress of having a missing daughter. She looked younger, and even Harry felt a bit lightheaded when she tossed her hair back, eerily similar to that of her daughter’s.

Harry took a seat next to Ron, right across from Sirius and immediately began pouring himself some pumpkin juice. Around him there were early morning conversations, quiet due some members in the house being half-asleep (Tonks) and others who were having more private conversations with those next to each other. He watched as Lupin began a friendly conversation with Apolline and Adora, though Harry wasn’t able to hear what they were saying.

Bill and Mr. Weasley walked in, followed by Mrs. Weasley and they immediately sat towards the far end of the table. Harry almost had a heart attack at the sight of Moody standing in the archway, narrowing his one eye at Tonks who was near the point of spilling coffee all over the table.

Harry knew it wasn’t fair, but now whenever he saw Moody, all he could see was Crouch Jr. He hoped, he thought solemnly as he cut into his eggs and bacon, that he would soon get over that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mentioned before that for the expansion on veela lore, I take a lot of influence from the elves of Tolkien, in particular for this chapter, Lúthien. So the inner power will be explored very soon; Fleur is not aware of it right now. She has been informed of something like it an in off handed sort of way, but not on the risks and dangers of using it. Since she is not a full veela, the risks are greater. How she is going to figure this all out, you'll just have to wait in see. I'll link where I got the inspiration on the power if anyone is interested in reading. If you haven't read any of Tolkien's works, you might be confused, but I found it an interesting read none the less. 
> 
> Link is here: https://middleearthreflections.com/2018/05/20/on-luthiens-power-of-singing/
> 
> I also hope you guys aren't upset that a character called Hermione out. I love Hermione; I love each member of the trio, but I think it's fair to be called out when someone says or does something wrong. Adora wasn't trying to be rude about it, and neither was Hermione, but I too would get a little annoyed if someone started talking about my culture as though they knew more about than I did. I'm not saying that's what Hermione was doing, but I thought a little clarification might be helpful. Plus, I didn't like how J K Rowling handled that in the books. It kind seemed like low-key slut shaming. That's my opinion though.
> 
> Also, Apolline probably didn't think of putting the two together because of how stressed she has been since Fleur's kidnapping. Receiving no government help, having to take care of her other daughter, and worrying about everything else has probably taken its toll on her. It's not that she's dumb or doesn't care, she just probably never put the two together until his name was mentioned.   
> Quick French translations, as always, correct me if I'm wrong!:  
> Enchanté- Enchanted (More of a casual way to say nice to meet you)  
> Le plaisir est pour moi- The pleasure is all mine  
> Parlez-vous Français?- You speak French?  
> Je parle un peu de François- I speak a little French.
> 
> Anyways, thanks for all the support so far! All of you guys commenting, bookmarking, and leaving kudos are keeping this story going. If you would like to comment, feel free to do so if you would like too. Please keep safe out there! Oh, and Happy Easter to those who celebrate it, I personally don't, but enjoy if you do! Talk to you later!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is a day late, but my internet's been kind of acting up in the past few days, so sorry about the short delay. This chapter has also been rewritten several times; I just couldn't get it to flow the way I wanted, but I'm mostly happy with the way it turned out. It's not super action packed, but Fleur does learn a few things from an unexpected source. 
> 
> Well, without further ado, here's the chapter! I hope you all are safe during this quarentine! I'm still bored out of my mind, but what can you do?

The sun had risen higher by the time they left their temporary campsite, the early morning sky previously colored with shades of orange and pink. Peach and magenta, amber and rose, radiating hope, a new beginning. Another chance to live. The start of a brand-new day. Fleur hated it.

Arms wrapped around herself from the morning chill, Fleur glared at Barty’s back. Naturally, if he noticed her glare, he paid no mind. Glancing over her shoulder, Macnair walked a few paces behind her. The moment he caught her eye, he smirked and shot her a suggestive wink. Sneering, she whipped her head back around, the nip in the air somehow sharper against her skin.

Fleur nearly sighed. She had done the math a while ago and they’d been walking through the woods for nearly a week now. Already it was August 12th, the day that she knew something big was going to happen. What was going to happen, exactly, she was entirely sure of. Only that her deepest instinct told her that somehow, it depended on little Harry Potter. Thinking on it, everything seemed to revolve around Harry Potter. Especially these days with war growing on the horizon.

Yet here she was taking a walk in the woods, Fleur mused absently. She vaguely wondered how the other two knew where they were going, considering she hadn’t seen a map. She figured that Ilya had told Barty a specific way to get through, but it was still odd. Still, she was glad it wasn’t as hot as the days before nor was there the threat of heavy rain about to pass through. The storm that had come through two days brought heavy winds that shook against the edges of their tent, and the rain she swore could have pierced holes through the fabric.

Still, in the days that had passed since the rain, the woods were silent. Fleur looked up the tall trees, taking in their height and grandeur. Ancient, so much so she wondered how long they had been there. The coolness the rain had brought out the creatures that had laid low, but now she could see deer quietly eating at the grass, and the squirrels scurrying up and down the trees with their cheeks protruding with food.

It was all nice. Normal, even. Fleur might have enjoyed it more if it were not for two things: the Death Eaters she was unfortunately with, and the voice.

In her mind, Fleur heard the rustle of leaves, and a voice like a thousand tiny bells, sweeter than bird song. A voice as soft and whispered as the swaying grass, the buzz of tiny wings beating, almost soundless. Singing like tiny angels, a laugh like the high notes of a flute, a chorus of voices no louder than the buzz of a bee, like notes softly struck on a doorbell. She couldn’t make out words, only an indistinguishable song.

The sound buzzed in her ears and crawled along her skin. Fleur felt as though she were being watched, just as she had the days before. Yet by what, she didn’t know, and she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to know what it was. She glanced back to the right, where behind several tall trees, there was a babbling brook. Logically, it couldn’t be mermaids; they couldn’t sing above the ground. So, she wondered if it could possibly be what Yelena was talking about before.

“You’ve felt it too, haven’t you?”

Fleur looked back to Barty, who had slowed in his pace to walk next to her. She didn’t answer, but he apparently took that as a yes. “The Dryads have been following us,” Barty said unconcernedly. “Probably wondering why humans are walking so deep into their forest.”

“Dryads?” Fleur asked and looked back over her shoulder. “I only see trees.”

She then felt rather stupid for saying that. Of course they looked like trees; they were supposed to after all. They lived in the forests, bound to them and unable to leave. They could merge into the trees they so adored, hiding from the human eye. They lived in the forests outside Beauxbaton’s, but in all her years, Fleur had never seen one. The only photo she had seen of one was from her fifth edition copy of “ _Les animaux fantastiques_ ,” where one Newt Scamander had managed to convince the creature to pose for a photo.

“They would be hiding from us, naturally,” Barty said easily, somehow knowing this information off the top of his head. “They don’t trust humans; especially men. But they probably don’t see many humans this deep into their forest, so they’re most likely curious of our presence here.”

Fleur raised an eyebrow. “And ‘ow do you know all this?” she asked, a bit condescendingly. “You certainly seem to know quite a bit about this place.”

“Well I _was_ your professor,” Barty grinned, chuckling to himself. “I did have to make lesson plans for my classes.”

Fleur scowled but refrained from saying something rude. She would stick to her word of not fighting him, though the scathing remark she wanted to say burned at the tip of her tongue. The sooner they were at finishing this mission of his, they could go back to…whatever it was that they had. Hopefully she wouldn’t be asked to do anything for the Dark Lord again, but the thought of that made her insides twist anxiously. In truth, it terrified her not knowing what the future would bring, and it enraged the independent side of her to know that her fate depended on whether this mission succeeded or not.

Hands shaking at her side, Fleur was suddenly all too aware of the problem staring right down at her face. The dragon during the First Task, was one thing, but giants were entirely different. Facing the dragon with her plan in mind, she remembered stepping out past the Champion’s tent and past the trees to where the dragon waited for her in the enclosed fence. She recalled the nerves that hummed in her ear, and the eyes of over a hundred people watching in the magicked in seats. Yet the dragon in front of her was more daunting than the eyes watching her. The dragon sat before her with narrowed, evil yellow eyes and smoke rising from its nostrils. She stared at it, and the dragon stared back.

Yet the dragon did not make a move. As Fleur walked slowly, steadily towards the ginormous creature, the dragon only tilted its head. It growled a few times, but she reminded herself to stay calm. “Nice and easy,” she said, more to keep herself from panicking than to the dragon. “One step, that is all that you can do right now.”

The dragon must have heard her muttering, for it just stared at her with rapt attention. Even then, it made no move against her, and that was when the idea struck in Fleur’s mind. She smiled tentatively. “Hello,” her wand clutched in her hand, she brought it up in a gesture of surrender. “Aren’t you a pretty thing?”

Frightening as the dragon was, the way the sun shone down on the dragon’s scales made them shine a brilliant emerald green. It watched her as she advanced, even as she began silently casting the sleep spell. A sort of haze fell over the beast, as an illuminating deep blue pendulum began to sway in front of it from the tip of her wand. The rest was sort of a blur after that; the panic of her skirt catching on fire as she steadily made her way to retrieve the egg still fresh in her mind after all these months. Only afterwards, when she had time to ponder over the events, that she realized that the dragon didn’t attack her because of her allure. Was that, she had thought that night while mulling things over in her bed, normal?

Fleur had written to her grand-maman after that, but the old woman had only sent her a letter back saying to not worry about it. That there were two more challenges to get through and she needed to keep her head up. Fleur, taking her grand-maman’s words to heart, proceeded to push the events of the First Task aside.

Until now, Fleur thought as she returned her thoughts to present day. She had been told her whole life that the veela allure worked on humans, and she had assumed only humans. Never once would she have believed it would work on dragons or giants. Fleur frowned at the thought that perhaps there were things that her family hadn’t told her. Things that maybe she would have been told if she hadn’t been kidnapped.

Her oldest cousins, Yasmine and Rosine, were told things by their eighteenth birthdays. Fleur remembered feeling envious that she had to wait until she had her debut party, which would have happened after her graduation. Whatever it was Yasmine and Rosine were told, they couldn’t say to her then. They only told her, with teasing smiles, that she had to wait. It had annoyed her very much back then, though that frustration of being kept out of the loop now was grating on her nerves.

However, there was nothing she could do about it now. Loathe as she was to push her frustrations aside, it would do her no good to obsess over them. While she would love nothing more than to sit and think, they had to keep going. Although it was light out, there were still dangers around and as Macnair stated days ago, a wandless witch did not make for an intimidating one.

Fleur sighed, tossing her head back. For a moment, there was silence in her head. Sweet, wonderful silence before the voice returned. Somehow amplified, as though it were trying so hard to get her attention. Fleur promptly ground her teeth together and pressed on. Ignoring it, for all she knew, it could be some creature trying to lure her in and devour her.

“Something wrong?” Barty asked her suddenly, drawing her attention back to him. He smirked. “Well? Cat got your tongue?”

Fleur scoffed. “Of course not,” she rolled her eyes when he looked unconvinced. “I am fine. Why would I not be?”

“Hm, I don’t know,” Barty replied, ignoring her eyeroll and stared at her with such scrutiny she felt like she was under a magnifying glass. “Maybe its because you look like you’re ready to bolt at the slightest sound.”

Whatever she was about to say didn’t happen. A snapping sound, loud and abrupt made her immediately turn around. Macnair stood there, doing a poor attempt of hiding his sneer when she looked down to where he was. He had stepped on a branch, and it had snapped under the weight of his shoe. “Oops,” he said, grinning.

Fleur turned back to Barty, who seemed rather smug. “I rest my case,” he said simply. “Now, what’s the matter?”

How exactly was she supposed to explain the voice that lingered in the recesses of her mind? Even with the way he was staring at her, Fleur wasn’t sure if he would believe her. “It is nothing,” she brushed him off. “Now shouldn’t we be moving? Or would you rather stand ‘ere all day?”

Barty didn’t look like he believed her, but he resumed his pace, still glancing at her every few seconds. Fleur closed her eyes briefly, trying to turn her mind into a blank canvas. She was well aware of his skill in Occlumency, but she had no knowledge of him being a Legilimens. Even if he wasn’t, and she had the sneaking suspicion he was, it would do best to clear her thoughts in case he was trying to take a peak into her mind.

They continued walking for what seemed forever, but Fleur paid mind to look up at the sun. Without a watch, she couldn’t properly tell the time. However, she could track the sun’s movements. With the early morning colors having faded, it was somewhere between eight to nine in the morning. She sighed resignedly. There was still a long way to go before they took a break for lunch.

The voice still tickled in the back of her skull, and Fleur huffed in annoyance. Barty kept looking at her every now and then but refrained from asking anymore stupid questions. Fleur could only be so grateful for this, but as much as she loved the silence between them, it only made the voice in her head louder.

Maybe she was going crazy. If she was, she would just blame it on the deranged lunatic who kidnapped her.

The sun was high in the sky by the time they eventually stopped for a break. Fleur, eager to sit down and rest for a while, took a seat down on a tree stump. The other two set down nearby on the tree that had fallen an undetermined time ago. Barty, reaching into the drawstring bag, pulled out the wooden box. Macnair raised an eye.

“How much food did this woman make for us?”

Barty eyed him. “This is the last of the pirozhki. If it wasn’t for Fleur, we would’ve had to cook for the past few days,” Barty gestured over to Fleur, with a glint of pride in his eyes. “That woman liked her, enough to make sure we would have enough to get through this mission.”

“I see,” Macnair glanced over to her. “Who would have thought your veela could manipulate someone as bitchy as that woman.”

“There was no manipulating involved,” Barty said calmly. “That woman suspected us; she thinks my Fleur is in danger.”

The “ _my Fleur_ ”, had her blood nearly boiling, but Fleur took a bite of the lunch handed to her in order to keep from snapping at him. She was in no mood to deal with him. The thrumming in her head had grown louder, but now it wasn’t just one voice. It was more, all of them echoing around as if the one decided she originally couldn’t hear it.

Fleur finished her pastry quickly, brushing the crumbs off her lap. She stood; hands curled into fists by her side. She’d had enough. She spun on her heel, shoulders squared back, taking in the scenery. The men looked at her, pausing as she scanned the trees. For a brief moment, there was silence. Until she looked north, and the one voice that had been dominant over the others, resounded again.

“Oi, where are you going?” Macnair called to her as Fleur took off, hair flying behind her as she hurried away from where they sat.

“She’ll be fine,” Fleur wasn’t far enough to hear Barty, with no concern at all, speak to Macnair. How he knew, she didn’t care.

She didn’t run, but she wasn’t leisurely walking either. With her pace fast, Fleur followed the voice. One thing she was now for certain of, it wasn’t dangerous. If it was, she was sure Barty wouldn’t let her go alone. Whatever it was that was calling her, it wanted her attention, and well, Fleur just wanted it to be quiet. If this was the way to achieve that peace, then she would find out what it wanted.

Low-hanging branches snagged at her jeans and shirt, but Fleur paid them no mind as she pushed forward. If she hadn’t been in the situation she was in, she would have called herself crazy for following a strange voice. Yet, Fleur had always considered herself a curious if not determined young woman. She would leave no stone left unturned if she could, so despite the fear of the unknown, she didn’t hesitate to find her way through the undergrowth.

She carefully made her way past tree roots, using the trunks of the trees as support as the forest grew darker. The trees were denser here, thick and more ancient than the ones on the path. Sunlight couldn’t sneak past the tops of the trees, and Fleur felt a spike of fear crawl up her spine. Anything could be lurking here in the darkness. All sorts of dark creatures hungry for their next meal. Yet Fleur had faced darkness before; had survived it time and time again. Nothing could stop her now.

A patch of sunlight did make its way through the darkness of the ancient trees, and Fleur was able to make out a natural archway formed by said trees. With her hands clutched towards her chest, Fleur walked through the archway. The voice was so clear now, so loud it felt as though it were going to consume her whole being. Beyond the archway there was a large rock, fallen from somewhere and looking sort of misplaced here in the forest. It was rough, untouched by rain and time.

Fleur stepped past the rock and found herself a bit astounded by what it hid. A beautiful forest glade enclosed by the tall ancient trees. She had seen glades before, and they weren’t anything special, but somehow this one was. In the center of the glade, a small lake shimmered the reflection of the sun like a mirror. At the far side, a flowing stream flowed into the forest, babbling smoothly into the silence. Songbirds trilled into the treetops, soaking in the golden sunlight that poured through the trees.

For a moment, all Fleur could do was stare into the glade as she cautiously stepped further in. The voice in her head had gone silent, just as quiet as the glade. Fleur nearly sighed at the cool breeze that tickled the back of her neck as it played with her hair. It was nice here; peaceful. A much better place to be than with her kidnapper.

“ _Hello_.”

Fleur nearly screamed at the voice that just echoed back in her mind. Not a faint voice, singing indistinguishably at her, but clear and precise. No one stood in front of her. She was going insane, Fleur grumbled to herself as she shook her head. It had finally happened; Barty had pushed her to the brink of insanity. She was hearing voices in her head and it was all his fault.

“ _We’ve been waiting for you, young one_.”

There it was again, Fleur thought dismally. Yet before she could even call herself insane again, a noise made her stop. From the lake in the center of the glade, something rippled across the surface. A shadow rose, stepping further upwards until all Fleur could see was something wet and golden. Of all things Fleur expected to rise from the lake, a woman was not one of them.

As the woman drew closer, Fleur could only describe her as breathtakingly beautiful. Her features were elven-like, pointed and soft so that the woman appeared eternally young. Her eyes were the color of the lake and shimmered with a sort of kind warmth. Her body was wrapped in what appeared to be a makeshift dress made from some unidentifiable material. Her hair hung to the back of her knees, rippling gold in the sun and dripping with water beads. Still, Fleur could only stare at her with amazement. At once, she realized she was looking at what Yelena had mentioned to her before: a Rusalka.

The Rusalki smiled. “Do not be afraid,” she said in English, so Fleur could understand. “You are safe for now.”

“For now?” Fleur asked uncertainly.

The Rusalka nodded and gestured around her with a slim pale hand . “You are in the glade of the Rusalka,” she said tranquilly, her deep blue eyes as mysterious as the lake she entered from. “You will be safe here, for none are allowed to enter without my permission.”

“Your permission?” Fleur asked, rather bluntly and without hesitation. “Who are you? Why am I welcomed ‘ere? You do not know me.”

If the Rusalka was offended by her boldness, she did not show it, and instead gave Fleur a warm smile. “There is no need to be nervous, we did not summon you here to harm you. Quite the contrary, actually,” the Rusalka’s smile changed, into one with a little bit more playfulness. “When my sisters told me a veela had entered our forest, I knew I had to meet you.”

Fleur frowned, immediately on edge. “And why?” she asked, cautiously taking a step back. “Who are you?”

“I am Lithoniel to my people,” the Rusalka answered after a moment’s pause and bowed her head in respect. “And I am Galina to the humans.”

“Which should I call you?” Fleur asked, and though she found it a bit odd the woman had two names, she supposed it wasn’t really that uncommon. People from two cultures could have two names, couldn’t they?

The Rusalka lifted her head, and in her eyes was the golden reflection of the sun. “It is not everyday I give my true name to just anyone,” she said, and Fleur immediately understood. “Galina”, was mere a formality; something to use when surrounded by uncertain strangers.

“I see,” Fleur said, and smiled politely back. “My name is Fleur. It is nice to meet you.”

“We have been waiting for you,” Lithoniel nodded back, and the kindness of her smile extended to her entire being. Fleur felt slightly less on edge, but she still did not step closer to the Rusalka. “The Dryads informed me that there were men in the forest, traveling with the veela my sisters told me about.”

“You don’t trust men?” Fleur asked, tilting her head curiously.

Lithoniel shook her head. “We do not allow men into our glade,” she stated firmly, eyes glinting. The way she said men made Fleur’s skin crawl in an unpleasant sort of way, as though the very word was poison against her lips. “Humans do not usually enter our domain very often, and when they do, we rarely allow them passage into our space. So please, you must forgive the others for not coming forward just yet.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Fleur noticed a girl peaking out from the side of a tree. No, not a girl, a Dryad. Her large leaf green eyes curious, stark against the brown bark of her tree. Then slowly, the Dryad peeled herself away, and the rough bark became smooth brown skin. She treaded slowly towards where Fleur and the Rusalka stood, her wavy hair tumbling behind her like branches in the wind, as dark as the earth and nearly as long as the trees she was apart of.

She wasn’t the only one either. Fleur watched as Dryads of different colors emerged from the trees, until they stood in the glade to stare at her with astonishment. As though she were on a display, Fleur smiled and waved towards them shyly. “ _Bonjour_ ,” she offered softly, and though they didn’t shirk away from her, they did not respond either.

“The Dryads speak their own language,” Lithoniel said patiently. “It is spoken among them silently, and no human has ever heard what a Dryad has to say.”

“Oh,” Fleur looked back to the Dryads, still watching her hesitantly. “So they are welcomed into this glade as well?”

“Of course,” Lithoniel nodded her head. “The Dryads were born with this forest, and they will die with this forest. They are the very heart of this place; our glade would not be here without them. We revere the Dryads as much as were respect each other.”

Looking at the Dryads, and the Rusalka before her, Fleur thought they didn’t seem like much. Yet then again, she knew what it was like to be taken for granted; to be underestimated. Simply for being a quarter veela. Immediately, she understood it would unwise to disrespect them. An insult to all those who scoffed at for being “too beautiful for this world.”

From the lake behind the Rusalka, Fleur watched as a dozen or more Rusalki emerged. With their golden hair shimmering in the light, the stepped forward gracefully. They stood behind their leader, and one of the younger ones peaked their head out from behind their mother, staring at Fleur with expressively wide azure eyes. Fleur smiled and gave the small child a wave. The child immediately hid behind their mother’s dress, and the mother said something to them in language only they understood. For a moment, it was like being at Hogwarts again, surrounded by people speaking a language she hadn’t fully mastered yet, and Fleur hated feeling left out of the loop.

“I am sure you are wondering why we called you here,” Lithoniel started, hands folded in front of her neatly. “When I sensed your magical presence, it was one that hasn’t been felt here in a long time.”

“Excuse me?”

“As Rusalki, we are related to you veela,” Lithoniel began, and if Fleur hadn’t been paying attention, she would have missed the translucent silver glow the Rusalki carried. “One of Ralitsa’s brothers traveled into the Mediterranean and came upon a mermaid, or sirens, as they are called down there. They are said to be nicer looking in warmer waters rather than colder ones. But when she sang her song to him and he sang his back, well, here we are now. We may not have fins, but we do breathe underwater like our mer-cousins.”

Fleur could imagine it. Male veela didn’t have the allure that the female veela had, but they were no less beautiful in appearance. They could sing and dance just as well, so she was not at all surprised that one could enchant a mermaid. Still, it was sort of romantic; something she would have cooed at as a small child. A small child still unaware of the reality of the world, and how it was nothing like the old tales. But still, all the same…

“Wait,” Fleur paused, looking back to the leader of the Rusalki. “You think I ‘ave been ‘ere before? I am sorry, but that is not possible. I ‘ave never been to Russia until now.”

Lithoniel tossed her head back. “Your magical signature is in this forest. Yours, and yet not yours,” the Rusalka mused, but upon seeing Fleur’s confusion, she started over. “Ralitsa was here, a long time ago. Long before I was born. I have never met her, but I know her magic. It breathed life into this forest.”

“I thought the Dryads did?”

“Yes, but they were not the only ones to bring this place to fruition,” Lithoniel said evenly. “You have heard the story of the first veela, have you not?”

“Of course I ‘ave,” Fleur answered, a little miffed at the assumption. “What veela ‘asn’t?”

The corners of Lithoniel’s mouth curled upwards in amusement. “Before she met her Dima, she traveled to this place with her siblings. They traveled through all of Eastern Europe, enchanting all those who came across them. Ralitsa, being the first veela brought this place to life with her very song.”

Fleur frowned. “’Er very song?” she askes skeptically. She’d heard the story before; how Ralitsa’s allure was so powerful it could change even the seasons. Though admittedly, as she got older, Fleur found she was less inclined to believe that part.

“I see you are bit skeptical. No matter, that is understandable. Though I think it is a bit ironic that Ralitsa’s great, great granddaughter would not believe in her power,” Lithoniel sighed, and shook her head once more. “Tell me, young one, how much do you understand about your power?”

Fleur paused, taking a moment to think. She knew that it wasn’t something she could turn off or on; it was simply a part of her. That her magic was sensitive to the magic of others, and that even by stepping into a room, she could perceive the emotional state of people and her magic would cause everyone’s to react and shift their focus onto her. From then on, she could influence those to do what she wanted. Or leave them in the dust to stare and wish they were with her.

“I know what all veela know,” Fleur started, and then lowered her head in defeat. “Though I suppose there are things my family ‘ave not told me.”

“if you reach down, young one, you will know it’s there,” Lithoniel encouraged, her hand outstretched as she stepped forward. “Feel the forest. Let your magic reach out and find it.”

Fleur took the offered hand and closed her eyes. It took a moment, but she cleared her mind until all she could hear was the gentle hum of the summer breeze and the babble that came from the water. She could smell the dampness of the earth, rich and full of its own magic that brushed up against hers gently. Beyond that, she focused further, brow furrowing. It was there, buried deep and pulsating faintly inside her like a second heartbeat.

The rich scent of the earth yielded to something fresh, a sweet fragrance like gardenias or jasmine blooms. There was a sound that danced around in her head; the dulcet rising of a lark and of falling rain. The building energy inside her, buried so deep, thrummed inside her like a rhythm. Pulsing and growing louder. It sounded like music in her head, echoing a sound so soothing and warm she felt as though she were floating.

“Do you feel it?” a different voice asked, near her, but not one Fleur recognized. One of the other Rusalka had spoken. “Do you feel the remnants of her old magic?”

Fleur nodded, unable to find the words to speak. She opened her eyes, and the world somehow seemed more alive than before. Brighter, somehow, and she felt beyond words to describe it. The deep energy inside her still sang with life, vivacious and thumping with a beat all its own. Fleur felt as though she had just been woken from a long nap. In some strange way, she suddenly felt more alive than before.

“It is hers, and it is yours,” Lithoniel said sagely, her hand still in Fleur’s. “I never thought I would ever see Ralitsa’s descendants return to the forest.”

“That was ‘er power?” Fleur asked, shaking from the strange peak of energy. “’As it been there this whole time?”

“It is hers, but it is also yours,” Lithoniel stated simply. “No veela will ever be as powerful as Ralitsa, however, the inner power she possessed runs through her direct line. Your family must not have told you that just yet, for it is normally never fully awakened until a veela comes of age.”

Fleur remembered what Yasmine and Rosine had been told on their birthdays following graduation. The information they had not been allowed to share. Now it all made sense, though Fleur couldn’t help but wonder why the Rusalka seemed so interested in it.

“Do you have it?” Fleur asked hesitantly.

Lithoniel shook her head. “We do not come from Ralitsa’s line, young one. We are descended of one of her brothers, though we unfortunately do not remember which one. Such information has been lost to time, as once there were many veela who lived in this forest. Now, there are only us.”

“What ‘appened?”

“Man,” Lithoniel said gravely. “And their need for power.”

Fleur understood immediately, and gingerly placed a hand to where her shoulder met her neck. She wasn’t sure if she would ever erase the phantom feel of him against her. Lithoniel’s gaze darkened, and she closed her eyes, opening them with such sadness. “You are all too aware of their own greed,” she said heavily. “And the lengths they will go to claim what they desire.”

Fleur nodded numbly, suddenly all too aware of everyone’s gaze on her. “I ‘ave made a deal with ‘im,” she found herself saying, before she could even stop herself. “And I cannot go back on my word.”

“So be it,” Lithoniel said, as if she understood what that meant. “Oaths are binding. We would not be able to break it for you, even if we want to.”

“Do you ever leave the glade?”

Lithoniel nodded. “From time to time, we enter the nearby village you entered from. We do not venture east.”

“Because of the giants?”

Murmuring swept through the glade, the Dryads and Rusalki sharing worried whispers and glances. A few Dryads shivered, looking back eagerly to their trees. Lithoniel, her face like that of a stone, frowned. “Giants do not venture here. Rarely do they ever leave their mountain colonies,” her brown furrowed. “Though that is the direction you are going, is it not?”

“Yes,” Fleur replied grimly. “My life depends on whether or not they agree with us.”

Lithoniel went silent, her eyes studying Fleur with deep thought. Finally, she spoke. “If you use the inner power, you might be able to sway them,” she said, but then her fair tone hardened. “But be warned, the inner power comes at a great cost.”

“Great cost?”

“Even a full veela will hesitate on using it,” Lithoniel warned. “It is a great use of power that could potentially leave you severely weakened. It can even be fatal, if it depletes your life force. Many veela never use it, for fear of being severely weakened to the point they can no longer defend themselves, or of death.”

“Once the magic begins to flow, it cannot be stopped,” another Rusalka warned. “It could be wonderful, but it also could be dangerous. Do you understand, young one?”

“Yes,” Fleur nodded, and her spirits had dampened immensely. How could she use such an unrestrainable magic without it potentially killing her?

“Do not despair,” Lithoniel said kindly. “There is no use dwelling on what _could_ be. No one knows what will happen. Knowledge is your greatest weapon. Know your limits; pay attention to your surroundings and you will come out alive.”

“Thank you,” Fleur bowed her head in gratitude. “Thank you for telling me this. I greatly appreciate what you ‘ave told me.”

Lithoniel smiled again, and then she stepped back. All the others moved with her, as she gestured to the clearing. “We give you this knowledge freely, in hopes that you will use it accordingly,” she gave another warm smile. “But before you leave us, we have only one request.”

Fleur tilted her head. “One request?”

“Sing for us,” the small Rusalka from before all of a sudden spoke up, peering up at Fleur innocently. “Please?”

Fleur stopped, mulling it over in her head. She’d been gone for Merlin knew how long, and she had the slightest inkling that Barty would start looking for her eventually. If not already, she thought, but shook that thought away. She nodded to the Rusalki and the Dryads, her chest spreading with warmth from the way their faces brightened.

“Give me one moment,” Fleur requested. “Let me think of something.”

She knew plenty of songs, and though she was no musician herself, she could make one up if she had the time to think. She recalled plenty from her childhood, both from her grand-maman and the other people around her. There were songs from the local pub (ones she would never repeat in front of her parents), and ones from school she had learned. Yet the one that stuck out in her mind clearly was an old lullaby. Her maman or her grand-maman would sing it to her and her sister when they were younger and couldn’t sleep. An old lullaby, tracing even farther back than her grand-maman.

“Alright,” Fleur cleared her throat. “Just one more minute.”

She cleared her throat, tossing her head back to straighten her shoulders out. It had been a while since she had last sung in front of people. It wasn’t normally something she did very often, but the Rusalki and Dryads had been nothing but nice to her so far. Unlike some people, Fleur had been raised with manners. Even if she didn’t always follow them, she had the sense that these creatures here would not take too kindly to rudeness. So, she opened her mouth, and started to sing.

“ _When the night wind comes to dance,_

_Then the past whispers not to forget,_

_Sleep my darlings safe and sound,_

_For you have everything in your heart,_

_You will find all answers here,_

_A patch of your life among countless meanders_

_But if you tread down that old path,_

_Be careful not to get lost in it,_

_It sings for those who know how to listen,_

_And in the song all magic swells,_

_But you must brave what you can’t see,_

_For to face, what your heart knows,_

_When the night wind comes to dance,_

_Then the past whispers not to forget,_

_Come my darlings, have no fear,_

_The knowledge rests deep in your heart,”_

Fleur stopped, allowing a pause before giving a bow. Although it wasn’t a particularly long song, she thought it seemed appropriate enough for the request. However, amongst the sound of the applause, her insides twisted. That lullaby in particular had been passed down through the generations. Who was to say that it did not pertain to what she had just been told?

Fleur frowned, thinking hard. At the time, she thought it was a harmless lullaby. Yet, like most lullabies it carried some cryptic warning about drowning, or at least, what she thought was drowning. Now, she wondered if it could mean something else entirely. Something that alluded to what she had just been warned about.

“ _But if you tread down that old path, be careful not to get lost in it_.”

The warning echoed around, freezing her insides in an unpleasant way. As much as she wanted to brush it off as mere coincidence, it would be unwise to. Every song her maman and grand-maman taught her had some grain of truth to it. Even simple songs, there was always something behind it. A lesson, or a story about someone. Now, she felt extremely foolish to have brushed it off till now.

Lithoniel tilted her head, stopping in her applause. She frowned, and immediately locked eyes on Fleur. “Someone is approaching,” she said softly, and Fleur strained her ears to hear her. “Someone dark. Do you feel it, young one?”

Someone was approaching the entrance of the glade, and Fleur knew exactly who it was. In an instant, familiar magic crept over her in an unwanted embrace. She locked eyes with Lithoniel and said the very name she hated. “Barty.”

Although the Rusalki and the Dryads had no idea who Barty was, they immediately reacted. The Dryads ran across the glade, their feet silent upon the grass as they raced back to the sanctuary of their trees. The Rusalki, murmuring amongst each other, had begun to change slightly in their appearance. The older ones gathered the younger ones close, but their expressions looked less than pleasant. Sharper, and more skull like. Their skin had paled to a startling white, and their eyes had changed from varying shades of blue to pure black that stretched across their pupils. Fangs had replaced their small perfect teeth.

This, Fleur noted, was an attack stance. Just as similarly terrifying as full veela became when enraged. Even Lithoniel had taken on their appearance, her fangs more elongated than some of the others, but no less terrifying.

“I ‘ave to go,” Fleur began solemnly, watching as the Rusalki started leading the younger ones back to the safety of their lake. “’E will not leave ‘ere until I go with ‘im. I am sorry, I wish I could stay longer…”

Lithoniel shook her head, though the blackness of her eyes had begun to retreat. Her fangs retracted and her face became clearer. The Rusalka nodded, taking Fleur’s hand again. “Then you must go, dear cousin,” she said sadly. “Though I cannot see if our paths will cross again.”

Fleur squeezed her hand back. “Thank you for the guidance,” she bowed reverently. “I will not forget it.”

Most of the Rusalki had left, leaving only Lithoniel and a few others. As Fleur turned to leave, she could hear them calling out at her, echoing sounds of what she assumed were goodbye in a strange sort of clicking language. With a heavy heart, Fleur left the beauty and safety of the glade, stepping past the large rock and into the darkened forest.

It seemed darker than before, even though she wasn’t aware of how much time had passed. He was there, somewhere in the darkness, looking for her. She knew it was him; how could she not? His magic called out to her, awaiting any sign of her and her magic was the shining beacon it was looking for.

Fleur carefully stepped through the darkened forest. Unlike before, her mind was clear of voices and her skin prickled with dread at the thought of him finding her. Despite her word, she loathed to be back in his embrace; to be subject under his desires.

Through the darkness, however, something bright caught her attention. Fleur stopped, watching with widened eyes as the shining object darted closer and closer to her, leaving wisps of light that faded as it darted away. A Patronus, she instantly recognized, and her heart surged with hope. Could there be a witch or wizard out here? She had heard before that Death Eaters could not produce a Patronus of their own, so it had to be from someone else, but who?

The Patronus advanced closer to her, and she stood frozen in place as it danced around her legs. A silvery fox that silently danced around her. The owner couldn’t be far behind, she thought as the fox darted back out into the darkness.

“There you are,” a familiar voice drawled, and Fleur stiffened. “We were beginning to think you had gotten lost.

Barty, illuminated through the silver glow coming from his wand, appeared through the darkness. Fleur, astonished, glared at him as the fox from before leapt in front, walking alongside him as though they were old friends.

“Death Eaters can’t produce a Patronus,” Fleur stated, bewildered by what she was seeing. “So ‘ow?”

“Well most can’t, so that’s true” Barty answered easily, now so close to her she could feel the warmth resonating from his body. “But it’s not as though we go broadcasting to our enemies every single spell we know how to do. Some of us like to have an air of mystery, darling.”

She vaguely wondered how he was able to produce one, considering he had been to Azkaban and then kept under his father’s control. What happy memories he did have, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know. The thought of him even being happy made her sick to her stomach.

“So, how were the Rusalki?”

He grinned as her eyes darted to him, and he stroked her face gently with his free hand. “I had a theory they would reach out to you. I knew their sanctuary was somewhere in this forest, thanks to the information the innkeeper told me. I wasn’t sure how they would summon you, but when you suddenly went off on your own, I had a hunch that’s what it was.”

“So you knew this whole time?” Fleur asked, her stomach twisting again.

“Yes, and no,” Barty shrugged. “I figured by the way you were acting all secretive that they were possibly calling you through a mind link. All Rusalki have one, and since you are related to them, I suspected they would reach out to you that way. But, since I didn’t know for sure, it was only a theory of mine. One that I am happy to say was correct.”

Fleur glared at him. “You’re not going after them,” she took a step back, the entrance to the glade only a few feet away. “Men are not allowed in, and I won’t allow you to try.”

Barty rolled his eyes. “I have no interest in going after them. Why would I when I have you?” he said slyly, and he stepped closer to wrap his arm around her waist. She never broke his gaze, refusing to back down from the silent challenge.

“Then why let me go to them?” she asked. “What made you think that I would not stay with them?”

“Because you’re noble,” Barty responded almost instantly. “Their magic is strong, yes, but not strong enough to stop me from finding you. True, it would be an intense battle, but how many of their kind would they be willing to risk just to keep a veela they barely know safe?”

“They would do their best to stop you,” Fleur retorted hotly. “They ‘ave no qualms against fighting ‘uman men.”

“Ah, but would you let them?” Barty asked, grinning wickedly. “Would you let them fight your battles? Would you risk the lives of those who have nothing to do with us? I know you, darling, and I can say with absolute certainty that you would not.”

Fleur stared at him, not even stopping him when he took her by the hand. He was right, she thought bitterly. She wouldn’t have risked their lives just to keep him away from her. As much as she desired freedom, she didn’t want to risk the lives of innocent people and creatures. Nor did she want them to be used as leverage against her. She had no doubt in mind that Barty would threaten their lives just to keep her with him. He knew that she would never allow that.

“We best be getting along now,” Barty pulled her alongside him, the fox darting away through the darkness, lighting the path. “We’re almost there.”

“What?”

Barty glanced down at her. “We’ll be reaching the colony by tonight,” he said, and his grip on her tightened ever so slightly. “And if all goes well, we’ll have allies for the Dark Lord.”

Or she would be dead, Fleur though, and a tremor of terror raced down her body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know that Death Eaters don't have a Patronus, but screw that. I know Snape wasn't a Death Eater in the end, but he still had one. They're evil, but it doesn't mean they don't have happy thoughts or memories. Albeit probably twisted happy memories and such, but still. In this universe, it's maybe like only Snape and Barty can do it, possibly one or two more, but no more than that. 
> 
> Lithoniel is a made up name. I was going for a Tolkein-esque vibe (can you tell I really like Tolkien lolz) so I imagine her being portrayed by Cate Blanchett. The Rusalki don't just give their names out to anyone, so I headcanon they use aliases when going about in the villages. Since they are in Russia, they have Russian names. The name Galina basically means serenity in Russian. Again, if I am wrong, don't hesitate to correct me!
> 
> I set the tune to the song Fleur sings from All is Found from Frozen 2. I absolutely loved that song from the movie and I've had it in my head for months. I rewrote the song for this story's purpose, so it's not an exact copy of the original. I'm no song writer, so sorry about that. 
> 
> Also this story has almost reached a hundred kudos! Thanks so much! I know this is a really rarepair, but I am glad you guys have enjoyed this so far!
> 
> I think that's it for now, the next chapter is being edited as we speak. Thanks again for all the support! If you would like to, leave a comment or a bookmark, or whatever you like. I just like to say thanks ^^ Stay safe out there and I'll see you all next time! Bye!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Sorry for the delay, I just got kind of busy with a few things in real life. I still haven't been able to go back to work, so job hunting has been my life for the past few weeks now. So just for that, I'll be posting the next chapter in the next few days! It was all going to be one chapter, but there's a lot that's going to happen, so I didn't want to cram too much in. Basically, the next two chapters after this is going to be, well, eventful.
> 
> But thank you to all the support! I have to say I was a bit surprised to see so many reviews in my inbox a week ago, but thank you! I haven't really had a moment to reply, but I read all of them and I am touched that so many of you guy are enjoying this really weird pairing. No matter how fucked up it gets. We've also reached over 100,000 words for this story, so yay! And over a hundred kudos! Thanks again!
> 
> So, without further ado, here's chapter sixteen!

The trees stood ghost-like, the silent observer of the iron gray mountains. The only thing bigger than the range of granite peaks was the darkened sky, dotted with silver and as vast as any eye could wander. Below, Fleur stood, made all the more tiny with her silver hair flowing in the wind. They stood in awe as the great mountain loomed before them, cold gray crevices holding the blood of many battles. While the lower passes wore a cloak of greenery, the peaks were crowned with a headdress of ice. Without a word, Fleur took in the sight of the mountains with a great sense of apprehension.

She knew an omen when she saw one, and these cold mountains brought nothing but a sense of coldness and death. She gripped her arms to steady herself, suddenly afraid that another gust of wind might blow her over. Standing there, she felt so insignificant. If she died here, no one would ever know.

“The giants live just past that first mountain,” Macnair pointed to one that had the lowest peak. “They rarely come down these days, so the Russian Ministry doesn’t have too many wizards patrolling them. We should be able to get up there just fine.”

Fleur didn’t see how. She had never climbed a mountain before, and from the looks of it, neither had Barty. She wasn’t even sure it was safe to travel up the mountains so late in the evening, with a lack of natural light. She opened her mouth but closed it suddenly. Squinting her eyes ahead of her, there was smoke. Black smoke that trailed upwards to the sky before dissipating into the darkness.

“Giants sleep for most of the day,” Barty said quietly next to her. “They should be awake by now. We should not linger here any longer.”

“Right,” Macnair grumbled in agreement. “Our companions won’t be expecting us.”

Fleur bit her lip, schooling her expression into one more passive. Either the Ministry had sent operatives to check the giants, or, and this seemed more likely, Professor Dumbledore had sent someone. She didn’t personally know Minister Fudge, but her papa did, and he detested the man. However, just by looking at the two Death Eaters, she could tell they were anticipating a fight.

She knew this by the way Barty set his jaw. Originally, she thought he was nervous and for once, she didn’t blame him. Giants, after all, were unpredictable. Yet, even though his jaw remained set, his lips twitched every now and then. A strange sort of light in his eyes told her everything. Cold, calculating, like he was thinking of every spell that would take his opponent down easily.

She glanced over at Macnair. Well, she noted distastefully, he was easy to read. His whole face screamed for murder and blood, never mind whose it was. Fleur could not recall ever having seen a man so sadistic. Even the way he moved suggested his excitement to kill.

It just made him more unpredictable, Fleur decided. With the way Barty walked closely by her, she just knew he was thinking the same thing. She was no seer, so she possessed no way of knowing if he would try anything.

The rocks were smooth against her shoes, but they were definitely not made for hiking. The precariously slid against the ground, and twice she had to grab onto Barty for support. She scowled when his grip lingered on her upper arm. He was taking full enjoyment out of seeing her depend on him.

Fleur bit the inside of her cheek, the wheels in her mind turning. Her insides tumbled around at the very thought of what she was going to do. Whether he knew it or not, Barty had sown the seeds of his own destruction. What she had in her grasp, what the Rusalka Lithoniel had told her, she could use her power against him. When she attempted to all those months ago, he had been expecting that. Likewise, she was sure he was now. What the Rusalka had not told her was if Occlumency would work against the use of her inner power.

She thought of her grand-maman all those years ago during the war with Grindelwald. Clearly it worked against the wizard who attempted to kill her grand-papa, but there were still factors her grand-maman had not told her. Did the wizard know Occlumency? Did she know it would work even if he did? Unfortunately, she did not have the answers to everything, and that set the risks even higher.

Still, Fleur was going to take the gamble. If there was even a chance of it working, she would do it. The price would be one she would pay, even if it sorely depleted her of any energy. It would be easy to just side and accept defeat, but Fleur wanted to live. It burned like a white-hot flame in her chest, warding off the urge to break down. Which, she would do, but not now. Not when there was so much at stake.

“We’re getting close,” Macnair called back from where he stood a few feet away. The darkness nearly swallowed his hair, making him look like a ghost in the night sky. “The smoke is getting stronger.”

And the smell of something that made Fleur curl her nose in disgust. Something in the air smelled…off. That was the mild way of putting it, at least, but it lingered in her nose. It was rank, so putrid that it stuck to the back of her throat, coating her tongue in a layer of rot. She covered her mouth and nose, but that only made breathing more difficult.

Even Barty looked put off, she noted through squinted eyes. Macnair, on the other hand, tilted his head back and breathed in deeply. She wasn’t sure which was more disgusting, his reaction or the air. His eyes blazed with horrific desire; his pupils dilated so se could only see black.

“They’ve begun to cook,” Macnair said giddily. “This is perfect.

“What is?” Fleur asked through the sleeve of her shirt, her voice muffled by the fabric. “It smells rancid.”

“It means they’ve already found their kill for the night,” Barty answered her before Macnair could open his mouth. His face had gone pale from the foul stench that hung in the air. “They won’t be tempted to eat us.”

“Eat us?” Fleur’s eyes widened.

“I am fairly certain you were taught this at school,” Barty raised his eyes. “It’s common knowledge giants aren’t to particular about what they put in their mouths.”

“Bran the Bloodthirsty used human bones to make his bread,” Macnair added meanly. “And used their blood as his wine. I think you can imagine what he did with the flesh.”

“Obviously,” Fleur snapped at the grinning Death Eater. “And that is disgusting.”

Barty moved around her to place himself between the two of them. “Be that as it may, we are in no danger. They know us, well, you Macnair, so they won’t be tempted to eat us.”

“Lord Voldemort has asked me to bring them things in the past few weeks,” Macnair looked to Fleur smugly. “Bring them gifts, but it hasn’t really impressed the current Gurg. And that’s why he chose Crouch over here. Bet he thinks we need someone shrewder.”

It still didn’t sit well with her that she was nothing more than a present; a trinket to be handed over. But Fleur didn’t comment on that. Even though she had to bite her lip to restrain the snide comment from spilling out.

“How close are we now?” Barty asked, pulling gently on Fleur’s wrist to bring her along. “We shouldn’t be too far.”

“Another half mile at best,” Macnair answered. “Though it would be easier if we could just apparate there.”

“And lose the element of surprise? No,” Barty shook his head. “As easy as it would be, you can’t have forgotten that giants hate to be surprised.”

Fleur thought that sounded reasonable, loathed as she was to actually agree with Barty about something. She buried her nose further into her sleeve, but the smell still wouldn’t go away. It laced along her taste buds, bitter and metallic. She frowned and lowered her hand, tilting her head back slightly to inhale the foul air.

Yes, it was metallic. Bitter along the foul smell of whatever rotten thing the giants were cooking. “Blood,” she nearly whispered, catching the two men’s attention. “I smell blood.”

“They are cooking,” Macnair stated. “It is time for their first meal.”

“Non,” Fleur shook her head. “It is old blood. Lots of it, too.”

“And how do you know?” Macnair demanded.

She didn’t answer him, but when she felt Barty’s gaze, she became all too aware that he knew. Gathering deep inside her, she felt the old magic stir. She needed to gather as much of it as she could; the moment she left the clearing she’d begun doing so. It heightened her senses, and strange as it was, she could tell how old the blood nearby was and how much of it there was. The stench was terrible, and while she wanted nothing more than to make it go away, there was something else.

She never felt more alive.

“There must have been a fight,” Barty took a breath, and looked past Macnair’s shoulder. “Or perhaps they managed to kill the enemy.”

She thought of Hagrid, the strange half-giant who she’d seen several times before with Madame Maxime. Originally, she thought the two of them looked weird standing together, but the more she paid attention, the more she could tell the man adored her headmistress. He was sweet with her, and she knew Madame Maxime felt the same towards him. And who was she to judge, considering who she was stuck with. For now.

“Go on up ahead,” Barty nodded towards Macnair. “We will wait for you. Call for me if you need help.”

Macnair nodded, and with a flourish of his own expensive cloak, took off into the darkness. The light of his wand the only thing Fleur could see until it disappeared down the path. Barty’s own wand cast light on the two of them, and the glow around her body pulsed steadily along her skin. Immediately, she felt his eyes on her.

“What are you staring at?” Fleur asked warily.

“Nothing, your hair in the moonlight,” Barty said easily, and his fingers laced easily through the silvery strands. “The Rusalki taught you something, didn’t they?”

“Perhaps,” Fleur alluded, but said nothing more.

“And are you going to tell me what that was?”

“Non.”

He let out a laugh, and she fought back the cringe at the genuine sound. His fingers still dancing their way down her hair landed on her arm, pulling her close. The night was chilly, and despite her jacket, the extra warmth he provided didn’t help matters.

“I’ll be there in case anything happens,” he said, so out of the blue that Fleur’s attention snapped to his face. Earnest, she thought disgustedly. He smiled at her, caressing her cheek softly. “I will not let them attempt to harm you.’

“ _Like you have done to me_ ,” Fleur restrained herself from snapping at him. She bit the inside of her cheek again. In a few short hours, she would be free. She would get down the mountain, somehow, and find her way back to the Rusalki. They would take her in, let her rest and help her back to the village. There, she would get someone to take her to the Russian Ministry and before she knew it, she would be home again.

Freedom was so close; she could almost taste it. She felt almost light in the head at the thought, the adrenaline making her nerves dance on edge. It all depended on if her plan worked.

“We will have an old ally join us again,” Barty continued when she remained silent. His thumbs rubbed the top of her shoulders, his chin practically resting on her head. “And it will all be thanks to you.”

She would let him believe that, she glared into the darkness of his cloak. For now, at least.

“Crouch!”

They both turned to see Macnair running towards them. The light of his wand made him look manic with excitement as he looked from her to Barty. “I can’t believe it, but it’s happened! There’s a new Gurg!”

“What?”

“A bloody coup de tat happened, that’s what!” Macnair licked his lips quickly. “The fool Hagrid is there! And the half-giantess Maxime too!”

Madame Maxime? Fleur’s eyes widened and she turned to fix Barty with an accusing look. He refused to meet her eyes, and by that one action alone, it confirmed what she needed to know. Unsurprisingly, he’d been withholding information from her. Macnair, if noticing her glare, continued on.

“They’re fighting the giants as we speak,” he sounded eager to get back to the giant camp. “Now’s the time to make our move!”

“And the others?” Barty asked quickly, eyes widening.

“They’re fleeing as we speak,” Macnair grinned manically. “That Madame Maxime used Conjunctivitis Curses to blind them. That fool Hagrid has one on a rope with him. Bet he thinks that if they steal one, then they might have an advantage.”

If there was a new Gurg, and he was interested in what the Death Eaters had to say, Fleur decided she wanted her headmistress to get as far away as she could. Instantly, she ground her teeth together, holding back the pounding nerves. For a moment, she thought about getting the attention of her Headmistress, but what help would she be? If she and Hagrid were in danger, then attempting to help her would result in their potential deaths. The inside of her cheek bled from how hard she was biting, and she could almost feel the glare of her Headmistress.

Madame Maxime would tell her she was being an idiot, and perhaps Fleur was. Still, if they were fleeing, there was a chance that if she managed to enchant everyone around, she could catch up with them. If she didn’t, well, the Rusalki enclosure was still an option. They would protect her; let her rest for a bit before helping her return to the village. She wouldn’t stay long enough for any of them to be in danger.

Wordlessly, she took off after Barty and Macnair. Though still a bit far, she could hear the roars of anger, no, triumph. So many low, guttural that called out into the night, leaving a chill to run down her body. She feared not only for her life, but for her beloved Headmistress and Hagrid. Were their deaths what the giants were celebrating over. Their was fresh blood now, pungent and coating the night air with bitter iron. Someone, human or giant, had just been killed and the thing that bothered her most was that she didn’t know who it was.

A hand suddenly pushed her back. Glaring, she met Barty’s eyes with her frosty blue. “Stay here,” he ordered her, stopping her before she could speak. There was no warmth in that gaze, on cold gravity of the situation. “What good would come out of anything if you died?”

Her freedom, Fleur thought darkly, but immediately pushed that thought aside. She would not be dying, not today or any time soon. Her will to live was strong enough to push the thought of death aside, and for once, she nodded. Barty’s hand brushed hers, squeezing it once before he took off down the slope and into the giant’s encampment.

She knelt behind one of the large rocks, resting her arms on it and scanned the area below as if she were a bird. In the center of the large valley, there sat a pool of water that trailed off to form a small stream that trickled off into the west. The smoke from the burning fires filled the place with light, and with the waning gibbous in the sky, it allowed Fleur to take in the horrifying scene. Among the snow blown down from the upper mountains, she had initially mistaken it for dirt, but a doubletake made her reconsider. Her heightened sense of smell knew it to be blood, and it cake the ground below. Too much blood coated the earth like a fresh wall of paint, and instinctively, she knew it wasn’t Madame Maxime’s or Hagrid’s.

If anyone asked her how she knew, Fleur would have simply pointed towards the heads mounted on sticks.

She counted six heads in total, fastened upon what she now realized were crudely forged spears. The blood flowed like a lazy river to the blood covered ground from where their heads had been separated from their bodies. The heads were too large to be a human’s, and she felt both sympathy and relief at the same time. It wasn’t Madame Maxime’s or Hagrid’s, but rather the victims of whatever had happened here.

Fleur stood in complete horror as Barty and Macnair approached one of the giants. A large one, standing over twenty-five feet in height and made even more terrifying by the large helmet on his head. The Gurg, she instantly knew from how the other giants stepped aside when he moved forward. Barty and Macnair looked like tiny pinpricks from where she was currently hiding out. She closed her eyes briefly, concentrating on her heightened sense of hearing, and listened in.

“You remember me,” Macnair spoke in his oily voice. “I have come before, offering gifts of friendship between your colony and the Dark Lord. The previous Gurg had refused my offers before, but I can see that you and I have similar interests.”

A murmuring broke through the large crowd of giants, and she thought that their lumbering figures made the two Death Eaters appear as tiny ants. The Gurg stared down, the fire casting his eyes a flaming orange in the light.

“You is wizard from before,” the Gurg grumbled in terribly broken English. “Dead Gurg Karkus not like you. Says you is not trusting. Bad for giant colony.”

“But he is dead now, obviously,” Barty said, stepping forward with a slight bow. Macnair followed suit. “And you are the new Gurg. Surely what you have to say is more important than what the previous Gurg thought.”

The new Gurg grunted and reached down to pick up a branch that remained on fire, even after he kept trying to blow it out. “Half giants gift is useful,” he said, and stared down at the two humans. His giant fist knocked on the helmet upon his head. “They bring crown for new Gurg. But they talk of peace. Golgomath don’t like peace. Golgomath don’t like humans.”

“Of course not,” Macnair simpered, smiling thickly. “The humans they serve are…corrupt. They talk of peace, but what have those who do not agree with them wiped out. The Ministry would have you kept here like sheep to slaughter. Do you not remember the First war?”

Golgomath blinked once, shaking his head. “Golgomath like sheep. They tasty,” he frowned then, and shook his head once more. “But Golgomath remembers war. Golgomath remembers Father Gogmagog and Mother Ogma killed by mystery wizards.”

Fleur assumed he meant ministry wizards, unless he actually did mean mystery wizards. As in he didn’t know who killed his parents. She leaned in closer to hear, narrowing her eyes. The other giants looked to each other, speaking a sort of language that consisted of a lot of grunts and bellows. None of which she understood at all.

Barty raised his head to meet Golgomath’s. “Lord Voldemort remembers how the great giants were treated after the war. Shunted to this mountain side, left to die by those who deemed you unworthy to be seen. Lord Voldemort is offering you a chance to regain your old lands, to remove the wizards and witches who dare to confine you like this.”

The word “old lands” caught the giants attention. “Mother Ogma spoke of old lands,” he said, and Fleur thought he sounded almost wistful. “Golgomath no remembers them. He was a tiny giant when Mother Ogma and Father Gogmagog moved Golgomath here. Many caves, Mother Ogma said. Many lakes for giant to sit in. Much food for giants.”

The thought of a giant sitting in a lake, in any other situation, might have been an amusing sight. Yet, Fleur could only imagine how difficult it would be if the giants all of sudden started emerging in places they weren’t normally in. Not that she necessarily agreed with their living conditions here, but uprooting other people and creatures wasn’t right either. The giants, however, didn’t seem to share the same regard.

“Yes,” Macnair agreed. “Dumbledore would never allow you to regain your old lands. Yet Lord Voldemort would offer you the chance to regain them by whatever means necessary.”

“Necessary?”

“There will be war, soon,” Macnair seemed to come alive at the word, as did Golgomath. “We are to fight among those who would suppress us. Have the muggles kneel at our feet like the common filth they are. But we would need your help; your strength and size to fight.”

Golgomath gestured to the heads made even more terrifying by the light of the fires. “Those giants no want to fight for giants survival. They want to make peace with enemy,” Golgomath grinned. “But Golgomath want war. Golgomath want to use Father Gomagog’s club and Mother Ogma’s snake fang whip.”

Fleur had no idea what a snake fang whip was, but just the thought of it on another person made her shiver in fear. It didn’t sound pleasant, and she was almost sure it was probably laced in some sort of poison. Either way, the Ministry had to know about this. When she got out of here, she would report it to Professor Dumbledore himself if she had to. She didn’t know how useful that information would be, but she would be dammed if she didn’t report back at least something.

“You must rise and fight,” Barty spoke again, and he defiantly lifted his head in a gesture that took the giants aback at the sudden boldness. “To remain here is to accept death and defeat.”

“My friend here is right,” Macnair gestured to Barty. “He too was kept prisoner by his own father. Kept from serving his purpose and truly living.”

“I stand here now as proof of the Dark Lord’s mercy,” Barty addressed himself, and Fleur didn’t have to see his face to know he was probably smiling with manic glee. “He helped free me from my father’s prison. He gave me a chance to live anew. Will you reject a chance to regain control over the ones who have wronged you?”

“Vengeance,” Golgomath echoed thoughtfully. “Old Gurg no like vengeance. But new Gurg likes vengeance.”

“As do all,” Macnair bowed. “The Dark Lord longs to hear your war cry again.”

“At your discretion, of course,” Barty added quickly, and bowed once more. “You have as much time a you need to make the choice, mighty Gurg.”

Fleur slid closer to the ground, heart hammering. If they giants agreed, then perhaps she was not needed after all. No, that didn’t sound right, and if Lord Voldemort knew this, then why did he have Barty bring her here? What game was the Dark Lord playing? What was he trying to prove?

The hand that wrapped around her waist unfortunately offered Fleur little time to think about that. The massive hand tightened its grip on her before Fleur had a chance to scream out. She hovered several feet off the ground, legs kicking as she beat her fists down on the liver spotted hand that held her. The bones in her body shifted painfully, Fleur letting out a sound of pain as her ribs pressing against the thick skin of the hand.

“What have we here?” the giant’s voice, only slightly high enough that Fleur deduced it was a female giant. Fleur was brought up to the giant’s face for inspection, those green brown eyes staring at her curiously. “Food? No, tiny thing likes you is too thin. Not enough meat. Bones might make good soup, though.”

At the sound of turning her into soup, Fleur let out a howl of fury. “Let me go!” she snarled, slapping her hands against the leathery skin. “Let me go! I am with the two wizards!”

“Hmm,” the giantess leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. “There is something about you. Still too thin, needs more food. Might keep you in pen with the tasty sheep.”

“Pen? I am no sheep!” Fleur shouted hotly. “Release me!”

“Gurg Golgomath will decide,” the giantess nodded. “Yes, he will decide for Grizelda.”

The giantess lurched down the mountain side, kicking rocks and dirt as she went. Fleur howled in the giantess’s grasp, though she wasn’t sure how much good hitting the creature would do. So far, it didn’t seem to do anything. Not even irritate her.

When she reached the center of the enclosure where Golgomath sat on a chair made from the various bones of animals and humans, she presented Fleur. “Human,” she thrust Fleur towards the giant’s face. “Too skinny. Want to put her with sheep.”

Fleur noticed out of the corner of her eye that Macnair was fighting off the urge to laugh, and promptly covered his mouth when Barty glared at him. Barty stepped towards the giantess, smiling politely. “The girl is with us,” he informed the giantess. “She is a veela, so I am not quite sure how good she will taste. For all you know, she might make you sick.”

Bastard.

Golgomath leaned forward, coming face to face with Fleur. It took everything she had not to wretch at the smell of his foul rotten breath. A finger thrust her face up, none to gently tilting her head to face the Gurg’s. “Golgomath not see veela in long time,” he said thoughtfully. “Veela is pretty. Make good wife to keep in cave. Not make good mother though, giant’s babies be too small.”

Fleur blanched at the very thought of being the giant’s wife. Though, she supposed it wouldn’t be any worse than her current situation. Why, if she had a television, she would imagine that it would make for an interesting show. She didn’t recall at any point in history of a veela being the wife of a giant.

“Bran’og had veela,” Grizelda prompted suddenly. “Kept her in castle high up in mountains. Made her very happy wife. He killed by nasty human boy who took golden covered veela.”

Golgomath nodded. “Veela good for making giants happy. Sing like birds and dance like wind. Veela make Golgomath very happy giant.”

Oh sweet Merlin and Morgana, Fleur thought. It had not occurred to her that the Gurg would want to keep her around. This was much worse than what she imagined, even if that would mean getting away from Barty. And how the giant thought she would give him children, why, the thought of that alone made her sick to her stomach.

Barty must have been thinking the same thing, for he shook his head. “As much as I would love to give you the veela, I am afraid she was a gift for me from the Dark Lord. But he can give you many other things. Mountains, gold, muggle slaves for your own wants and needs.”

Golgomath looked from Fleur, to Barty, and then back to Fleur. He tilted his head. “Pretty veela your mate?” he asked curiously.

“Yes,” Barty bowed lower. “She is my mate.”

Grizelda grumbled something about loosing potential food, but much to Fleur’s surprise, she released her in front of Barty. His arms immediately around her in a show of ownership. Grizelda grunted. “Not good separating mates. Bad luck to separate mates.”

“Not if husband is bad husband,” Golgomath added, as an afterthought. “Not giving wife babies is mark of bad husband.”

“Well, they have only been recently mated,” Macnair spoke up, not hiding the malicious grin. “But I am sure that if he isn’t too careful, they might have many babies walking around. His veela might forget how it feels to not be pregnant after a while.”

Never before had Fleur wanted to punch the Death Eater in the throat, but Barty’s squeeze of her wrist prevented her from lashing out. Now that Macnair had the giants’ attention, she felt a hand press on her ribs. Barty’s cold hand pushed lightly down, to see how much immediate pain she was in. How touching.

“They are not broken,” she said quietly in a whispered tone. “I do not think, anyway.”

“I’ll check them later,” Barty whispered in her ear, but there would be no later. Not if Fleur had anything to say about it. “More than likely, they are just bruised. Giants aren’t known for their gentleness.”

Cleary, Fleur grumbled to herself as she rubbed her now bruising arms. Her body would be in pain for the next week or so, but there wasn’t anything she could do about that right now. Now that she had the giants’ attention on her, there was no turning back. Her magic flowed through her body; the inner power steadily growing stronger. Her blood sang with its unsung power, waiting for her to release it. When she did, she would have to act fast.

“While I regret to inform you that this veela is taken. I can offer you something else,” Macnair glanced back towards her and Barty. Steadily, Barty pushed her forward, where she slowly took the other Death Eater’s outstretched hand. Abruptly, she was pulled to Macnair’s side, catching her off guard. His pale hand stroked her face before an equally cold hand turned in the direction towards the giants. “If you would like, the veela would love to perform for you.”

“Sing for us?” Golgomath asked, amongst the impressed grunts of the giants around him. “Never hear veela sing before.”

“Oh, this one’s got quite a set of lungs, believe me,” Macnair continued, ignoring the glares sent in his way. “We would proudly display our respects to the new Gurg by having the veela perform.”

The giantess Grizelda took hold of the Gurg’s arm. “Mother Maggota heard veela sing once. She says it is most beautiful sound. Prettier than cries of humans.”

“Magic,” Fleur saw the glimmer of greed in his eyes, shining down on her. “Veela have magic. Golgomath likes magic.”

“Then by all means, let her sing for you. It would be an honor for her to do so.”

Macnair gave a theatrical bow, stepping back towards the assembly of the gathered giants. Barty stepped away to join him, his dark eyes never leaving her glowing form. In the center of the large gathering, she felt as if she were on a stage. Alone, with so much space before her, she was nearly an inconsequential bug that they could step on. Her heart pounded painfully in her ribcage, anticipating what she was about to do.

The old magic released was a rush of adrenaline she had not been prepared for. It shimmered down along her skin, an extra layer upon the fabric of her clothes. The valley around her brightened even more with her light. A diamond among rocks and stones, like a star that fell from the heavens above. The rhythm of old magic danced alongside hers, just as powerful as the earth beneath her feet and now free like the breeze that blew her hair. The Rusalki were right. It felt _wonderful_. Like she could dance and sing without a care in the world. All would love her, and all would never want another day without her.

She took to the center near the Gurg, hair fanning behind her as she walked. Her skin glowed like alabaster under the moonlight, glittering like a thousand diamonds. The silver aura that always hovered around her pulsed gently, pure and as bright as the stars. She looked like an enchantress, and she grinned.

She opened her mouth and began to sing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone was expecting a stand off between Madame Maxime and the Death Eaters (which would be cool, might I add), I originally did write it that way. Bu part of the reason, along with being a bit busy, that I didn't put that in here was because it just wasn't flowing right. I wasn't happy with the first draft of the chapter and I don't want to give you guys content I'm not entirely happy with. So, sorry about that. 
> 
> On the other hand, I hope you guys are ready for the next chapter. I think it will be up by this Friday, if not by Saturday. I am also thinking of getting someone to commission art for some parts of the story. Not the rape parts, because ew, but if any of you guys would like a scene illustrated, do let me know. I have zero artistic talent and my super talented artistic sister would not feel comfortable doing fan art of my story, so I won't pressure her into doing some.
> 
> I know the giants have their own language, so I think it fits that some don't know English or have the very basics of English down. Believe me, my spell and grammar checker is not happy. The names Grizelda and Maggota come from a book trilogy I read when I was younger called the Eidolon Chronicles. Not sure if anyone else read that, but it would be cool to know if someone else did! Gomagog and Ogma come from Welsh and Irish mythology. Bran (Bran'og) belongs to JK Rowling and is inspired by Jack and the Beanstock. Instead of a golden goose, he found a veela because why not.
> 
> Well, I think that's all for now, but as always, feel free to leave a comment! Or kudo or bookmark if you have not or would like to. Till next time! Bye!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Friday my dudes...
> 
> So that means I'm here with chapter seventeen! It may not be quite as long as the previous one, and not as long as the next chapter, but we still have quite a bit that happens. 
> 
> I am no song writer, but I've had Jenny of Oldstones from Game of Thrones in my head when writing this chapter. Obviously, I tweaked the lyrics a bit, but I do not claim the song as mine. It belongs to George R. R. Martin and the Game of Thrones Franchise. I just really liked it, and I thought it fit, anyways. 
> 
> Thanks for all the support so far :) your feedback means a lot. I never thought this story would actually get this far, but here we are! I got a lot in store in the next coming chapters, so I'll be sure to keep you posted. Again, I'm still thinking of getting parts of this story commissioned, so let me know what you would want to see. It's still a bit up in the air at this point, but I might ask someone in the next few months!
> 
> Happy readings!

_"High in the hills of a kingdom long gone,_

_Ralitsa would dance ‘neath the moon,_

_Remembering those whom once she had loved,_

_And the ones who had loved her in turn_ _,_

Her arms bent like ribbons in the wind, hair flowing behind her as she sang. An old song, one she had not sung in many years. Her Tante Artemia used to sing it to Cerise when she was still a toddler, singing lowly as she rocked the girl in the old rocking chair. Fleur smiled up at the giants, who in turn stared at her as though they had never seen anyone like her before. Except, she knew that they had not. To them she looked like a songbird, pretty and sweet in her voice. Yet they knew not of the magic she was weaving.

The Rusalki warned her that once the magic started to flow, there was no stopping it. Fleur could feel it, adding volume to her vocal chords and giving strength to her diaphragm. The series of twirls she performed did not tire her, for years of dancing lesson from her maman and her tutors had seen to her skill. A veela was an artist of the floating world. She danced, she sang, she entertained those who wished to see her. The rest, no one saw until it was too late, and they were entranced underneath strong magic.

_She had been gone for oh so long,_

_She could not remember their names,_

_She danced all over the damp cold stones,_

_Sang away to the ghosts that remained,_

The giant Golgomath could not keep his eyes off of her. The giant stared down at her, mouth a gape and large brownish-yellow eyes fixated on her every movement. She smiled at him, weaving the magic in her voice to what she wished for them to see. A castle, once full of life and vibrant colors, now lay in ruins as the veela danced under the moon. The ghosts rested in the shadows, watching her longingly as she sang of the old times. Of the days when she had loved and adored by all. When she had never longed for anything; never going without. A time of happiness and prosperity for all who became enchanted under her song.

To the giants watching and listening, completely engrossed in her power, her song struck a chord in their hearts. She pushed the magic, weaving the tapestry of the song. She imagined giants in their old lands, with food plentiful, woods full of trees to build their weapons and tools with. Lakes and rivers for them to take rest in. All of it gone now, the giants pushed to live in cramped colonies, left to die by those who did not care. It wasn’t a lie either, Fleur thought somberly. As much as the giants terrified her, she could not help but feel a slight ounce of pity for them. No one deserved to live in a sorrowful place such as this.

They would sympathize with the veela of her song, and what they would see was a sad fae-like woman who looked remarkably like Fleur. Dressed in white, with an aura of silver glowing over skin to make it shine like diamonds in the night. Her voice took on a more sorrowful tone, lacing images of pain and sadness of having one’s freedom taken away. To live life in fear, to never know what lay in a future covered in darkness. A girl glowing silver, standing before a broken road. No light to light her way, only darkness and deafening silence.

_But she’d never wanted to flee,_

_Never wanted to flee,_

_Never wanted to flee,_

_Never wanted to flee,_

The old magic, to Fleur, was like turning back the clock, traveling and returning to a previous life full of agony and lose. She embraced the magic and in turn it took control. She found herself in a different world. A world of pain.  
  
Her movements flowed with a dazzling grace that took away the breath of every person in her audience. She could feel her soul become one with the magic and she unleashed her emotions into her dance. She needed this as badly as she needed to breath.

Her entire being moved with a purposeful clarity. With each stride she made, it became more painfully obvious how much heart she put into her routine and how punishing it was for her.  
  
But no one saw the tears she let roll down her round cheeks.

At this point, she spun around to face the one who had caused her nothing but pain. Barty stared at Fleur, completely transfixed by her song and dance. Bewitched by the raw display of power. For the briefest moment, her magic reached out to his. Deepest black highlighted by silver threads, he resisted her. She could sense his mind resisting her magic, and she supposed she should have seen that coming. After all, the Imperious curse no longer affected him, so now he was less susceptible to the manipulation of mental magics. His will, like hers, was strong. But she would prevail.

To dance was freedom, to dance was to become an opening flower or a bird aloft. To feel the movement was new breath for her body and nourishment for a soul so tired. Before his malevolent eyes, she had sewn images of her freedom. Of her being without restrictions and to smile freely again. To experience joy she had not felt in what seemed to be eternity. Yet he still attempted to resist her, and she grinned in victory. At that moment, she knew he had not thrown up his Occlumency shield in time for her attack and his anger boiled just below the surface.

She had him in her grasp.

_She danced through the night and into the morn,_

_Through the snow that fell to the earth,_

_From springtime, to summer, as autumn drew near,_

_Till winter did cover the halls,_

“ _Let me go_ ,”

She did not need to say it to him. The command sung there in the old magic, directed towards him that cascaded over his own magic like a wave of raw energy. In turn, his reacted volatilely. In an effort to push her influence away, he attempted to throw his mental shield up. But it was far too late for that, she noted with a grin. Despite his attempt to block his mind, slivers of her magic slipped in. Whispering about in his skull that he wanted to release her. He wanted her to be free, to return to her own world with her people.

“ _Let me go,_ ”

“ _I want to be free; do you not want that_?”

“ _Free me_ ,”

“ _Let me go_ ,”

For the briefest moment, Fleur almost hesitated. Through the bright silver light, tear marks had slipped down his face, falling to the ground uncontrollably as he made no move to stop them. The darkness around him pulsed weakly under hers, trying to latch onto hers as much as it possibly could and push it away. Barty would not yield so easily to her. But her influence remained there, echoing in his mind how this would make her happy.

Yet she recoiled slightly at the sight of those tears. Taken aback by the display of pure emotion from him, she lightly pulled back. In those black eyes, there was sadness. A common feeling of loneliness, of a need for love that was almost always denied for him. His darkness reached out to her light, wanting it to return to him.

Fleur found that she pitied him. As much as she longed to rip his throat out with her own hands, she would not do it. She held no sympathy for him. He had chosen his path long ago, and his path was one of darkness and death, of loneliness and uncertainty. He had killed innocent people, lied, and betrayed so many who did love him. He turned his backs on them, and she would not excuse his actions. Yet, she still pitied him. Perhaps at one point, there was just a boy who wanted affection and validation. But he had chosen the wrong way to go about it. Somewhere along the way he had taken a wrong path and traveled so far down he could not find a way out.

If he even wanted to find a way out, Fleur thought for a moment as she danced along the stones. Her feet not even making a sound as they tapped lightly on the earth. She would not save Barty; hell, she wasn’t even certain if he could be saved. As it was, it was not her job to make that decision and she refused to do so. For all she knew, it was far too late for him to have another chance at life. But it was not too late for her.

_But she’d never wanted to leave,_

_Never wanted to leave,_

_Never wanted to leave,_

_Never wanted to leave,_

_But she’d never wanted to leave,_

_Never wanted to leave,_

_Never wanted to leave,_

_Never wanted to leave,_

In that moment as she danced open armed around the enclosure, she immediately thought of her maman. Fleur did not remember what the dance was called, or where it came from, but her maman had taught it to her sometime before Gabrielle was born. An old dance, one from very long ago and that it was a family tradition to pass it down. Most of their songs and dances remained closely kept secrets that outsiders, with a few privileged exceptions, were not allowed to understand.

Fleur grew up in a household of women who danced. There was never a day that went by without her mother, aunt, or cousins taking her by the hands to waltz or rocking out around the room. Music was on from first light to last. In a way it flowed through them and between them, creating bonds stronger than the walls of a church. Every time she heard those old tunes in the years to come she was dancing again, dancing with those women who loved her more than the rising sun.

She also remembered dancing with her papa. He didn’t look like he was much of a dancer, but Fleur knew full well how deceiving looks were. Her papa loved to dance, and he was good at it too. He could keep up with her maman and Tante Artemia. He danced with her and Gabrielle, gracefully waltzing them around the house whenever certain songs called. When she was little, he would swing her around the room while she shrieked and giggled, letting her step on his feet as he held her close.

A fire burned in the pit of her chest, and Fleur pushed the magic to grow stronger. She thought of her maman and papa, of Gabrielle. Of her grand-maman and grand-papa. Her tante Artemia and oncle Armand. Her cousins Yasmine, Rosine, Cerise, and now her little cousin Marcel, who was only three and the sweetest little boy she knew. Dear Morgana, she wanted to return to all of them.

All she had to do, was make Barty let her go.

_High in the hills of a kingdom long gone,_

_Ralitsa would dance ‘neath the moon,_

_Remembering those whom once she had loved,_

_And the ones who had loved her in turn_.”

Fleur wasn’t sure if it was her imagination or not, but she swore the giants had tears running down their faces. The weapons held in their large leathery hands slipped to the ground in a cacophony of loud noise. They didn’t say anything, they just sat before her with tears slipping down their cheeks. She swallowed, the magic humming like a buzz in her ear. It roared overwhelmingly, and she knew that she had to rest.

No giant moved as she took towards Barty again. His dark brown eyes watched her warily as she slipped towards him. He made no move has her silver arm reached out, cupping his face in a display of tenderness she never showed him. She thought she saw him lean into her palm, but that thought quickly left when she saw the burning message in his gaze.

“ _I will find you_.”

“ _You can try_ ,” her gaze read back, and he narrowed his eyes at the confidence in that gaze.

Slowly, careful as to not break the hold she had on him; Fleur reached into his cloak. She easily found the pocket near his stomach and wrapped her slender fingers around the wand. She had just about drawn it out when a hand snapped itself around hers. Barty’s eyes blazed with a ferocity she almost flinched at, but she merely fixed him with a look.

“Please,” she said quietly, almost a murmur.

It did not take much for her to slip out of his grasp, his hand falling limply at his side. His eyes following her body as she slowly, but steadily, passed further and further away. She eased her way up the pass where the giantess Grizelda carried her down from. The giants parted in way for her to move, not a single one of them stopping her from her quick escape.

Scrambling her way up the rocky path, she looked back only once. Fleur took in the sight, of the giants sitting as still as statues and Barty still staring daggers into her. How long her influence would last without her presence there, Fleur did not know, and she wasn’t going to stick around to find out. Her silver glow blazed light along the way, still as bright as ever as Fleur carefully made her way down the mountain.

Quickly, but cautiously, she noticed there were things about the mountain she had not seen before. Along the sides, there were various caves, briefly illuminated by her silver light as she passed. She passed several of them but did not stop to further investigate. For all she knew, there were other giants in there, or perhaps creatures even worse. Though it was not the full moon, werewolves in their human forms could be just as dangerous. She’d heard of several who, even when not in their wear-form, took delight in killing humans anyone. For sport, one said in a report when French Ministry officials apprehended one who had been going about raping and killing non-magique women.

The worst was Fenrir Greyback, and Fleur shivered at the thought. Reading about the First war in school, he was one of the worst werewolves of all time. Definitely not someone most people brought up in everyday conversation. The outrageous things he did to people, especially young children, well it was enough to make Fleur sick.

With that in mind, she passed the caves nearest the colony. For a long time, there was nothing but silence as she paid close enough attention to not slip and fall down the into the gorge’s below. Though it would be a quick death, it was not one she wanted to face. In the distance though, her heightened vision could make out the trees. Though she preferred the light, her enhanced vision could see through the dark. She was getting closer to the end of the mountain, nearing the base. If she could make it just a bit more, then she would be able to lose the Death Eater’s trail of her. Her plan, dear Merlin, was going to work!

And then, a wave of pure exhaustion hit her.

She was nowhere near enough towards the end of the mountain; perhaps another half mile or so, when her legs could no longer support her weight. With a startled cry, Fleur fell to her knees as a searing pain gripped her body tightly. The aura around her flickered, in and out, like a dying lightbulb she’d seen in a non-magique shop. Her vision blurred, and a definite ringing sounded in her ears as she lay there panting loudly. This, she managed to think through the headache that seized her mind, was pure agony.

Finally, the light around her waned out of existence, leaving Fleur with no source of light. Her trembling hand stuck Barty’s wand out, and weakly she cast out, “ _Lumos_!”

Nothing happened.

With a groan she waved the wand again. “ _Lumos_!” she attempted to cast out, but only a tiny sliver of light came from the tip of the wand, before it faded. She cursed out loud, an unpleasant French swear that if Fleur’s mother heard, she would have boxed her ears. Why wasn’t it working? Was it because the wand was inflexible? She cursed out again in French, hoping that it was just because she felt awful.

She waved the wand once more, casting the spell out for a final time with gritted teeth.

“ _Lumos_!”

The wand, after the third try, finally cast out enough light for Fleur to see her surroundings. Still panting heavily, she leaned against the mountain wall, rising on shaking legs to get to her feet. At once, she felt her stomach lurch forward, as though she had just stepped off a carnival ride. Her arms and legs felt heavy like lead, each step taking more and more effort. There was a terrible ache in her joints that screamed at her, sending stars behind her eyes. Each time she blinked, there were little black spots that danced in front of her vision. Her tongue sat heavy in her mouth, her throat dry as dirt and she longed suddenly for a glass of water.

She took a step. There was pain. Another step, and more pain. Her head pounded in her skull, and any moment now, she thought she was going to be sick. Her body hurt, her head hurt, hell, everything hurt and all she wanted to do was lie down and sleep for a good month.

The Rusalki had warned her about using the power. Originally, using it felt great. She felt so rejuvenated; full of life itself. Once she started using it, she couldn’t stop it. Not until it ran its course, and the effects of that had been up in the air. It could kill her, Fleur remembered somberly. How it would kill her, she didn’t know, but perhaps it was killing her now.

Fleur let out a cry as she stumbled forward, her knees giving out again. A few stray tears fell down her face at the sudden onslaught of pain and exhaustion. She sat on her hands and knees, panting so hard she thought her heart would leap out of her chest. She willed her body to move, but it just sat there. She couldn’t make her body move, and she didn’t know which was more terrifying: being so drained of energy she could not move or sitting her immobile out in the open. If she didn’t recover soon, Barty would find her. She didn’t even want to imagine what his reaction would be.

Through the light she managed to cast out from the Death Eater’s wand, she noticed something new about her skin. What had always been moonlight pale skin, had turned a sickly white. A tinge of gray touched it, she noticed as she brought her hands to her face for further inspection. Yes, she thought queasily. Her skin no longer held its normal beautiful qualities. Unhealthy, as if she had just been touched by death.

And in a way, she had. Now here she was, unable to even defend herself.

That moment, she realized something else unsettling. It took her a moment to take notice, but when she looked back down at her now lowered hands, there was no silver glow. She, like all other veela regardless of their status, always had a silver aura-like glow around their bodies. There wasn’t one now, she noticed with horror. It was gone, snuffed out of existence when the magic had run its course. Even her hair, she saw when she touched it, looked brittle and dull.

As if all life had drained from her body. She didn’t even want to know what her face looked like.

“Well, well, what have we here? A lost little veela?”

No…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, Fleur's in trouble. Again. Trust me when I say I want her to win, and she kind of did in this chapter. Excluding the one factor she overlooked. I think you are all smart enough to know what's going on, so I'll leave it at that.
> 
> Any great power comes with a high cost. Fleur might be descendant from a line of powerful veela, but she's also only a quarter. Tapping into such power, for anyone really, is going to have drastic consequences. It literally is taking a lot from her magical core; her spirit in general. So she's not looking too good right now. But, anything can happen. 
> 
> I don't think there's too much else to say in my notes right now, but I'll add anything if I remember. Leave a comment if you would like! Or kudo, or bookmark, whatever you'd like. I'll see you all next time!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Happy Monday/Memorial Day if you live here in the U.S! Hope you guys are staying safe out there, and though it's only been three days, this chapter is ready to be released! I hope you guys are ready because...well, you'll see. There's a few trigger warnings for this chapter, so please be careful if any of the things I have listed bother you.
> 
> Thanks again for all the comments! I didn't have a chance to reply to any of them this time, but I did see each and every one! Wow you guys like to guess on things XD but I thought I might clear up some confusion I saw. No, Fleur did not lose her powers; she's just maxed out at the moment. Using such an amount of magic has negative consequences and as much as I want her to get away, we probably won't be seeing that anytime soon. Again, this is not going to be a happy story. But still, thanks for all the response so far! It makes me happy to see this story has garnered a little following ^^
> 
> So let's get onto the chapter! 
> 
> TW: There is sexual assault and attempted rape/non-con. There is violence, so please read with caution/skip if you are uncomfortable.

Fleur’s eyes widened as through the darkness; a figure stepped forward. The strong body of Macnair stepped through the darkness, broad shoulders made more intimidating by the eerie shadows of the Lumos spell. His gray eyes were nearly black with a cruel glimmer, and Fleur became frozen to the spot. All of a sudden, it crashed down around her. Macnair had been standing with Barty near the beginning, but during her performance, she had not taken into account that he had vanished at some point. When had he done that?

“You don’t look so good, pretty,” Macnair leered. “Looks like you used quite a bit of magic. Don’t look like you usually do. All your fairy magic left you, hmm? I’m sure you’ll be fine in a few days. Maybe a few weeks.”

Fleur, with her arms shaking, managed to scoot back only two paces before they gave out. Macnair laughed cruelly. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he asked, feigning sympathy. “Are you too tired to try and fight me?”

“Get away from me!” Fleur managed to croak out as Macnair drew near. “Get away!”

“And do what?” Macnair asked, ever so close now. “Don’t be afraid, sweetheart, I won’t hurt you.”

He paused before grinning. “Too much,” he added with a violent grin that exposed too many teeth.

Though her arm screamed at her, Fleur raised the wand, her only means of defense. Even keeping a grip on it made her nauseous, a thin bead of cold sweat running down her face. Her vision blurred, voice slurring. “Get away...get away from me!”

“I don’t think so,” Macnair was face to face with her, his cold breath hitting her face. Even when she attempted to move away, he cast out. “ _Expelliarmus_!”

The wand flew from Fleur’s hand, flying through the air before it landed on the rock terrain, rolling several feet away from her. Time seemed to move slowly as she moved to reach for it, until something so horrible struck her. Something she never expected in her life to ever feel.

“ _Crucio_!”

The pain was everywhere, all at once. Fleur’s head lolled back, her voice ripping her vocal chords as she screamed louder than she ever had before. A scream so blood curdling, she wasn’t sure if it was even her own. Each individual piece of her skin felt like it was being carved up by white hot knives. The most intense pain she had ever experienced, and it wouldn’t go away. She was too caught up in her own pain to even feel ashamed for crying like an infant in front of a grown man. Her back arched excruciatingly, and through her blurred vision full of tears, she could make out his smiling form.

The pain subsided almost instantly, but to Fleur, it felt like it was still there. Fading gradually, but her cries were now reduced to mere whimpers. Macnair knelt beside her, his dark wand tracing her face as a lover’s caress. “You scream so prettily,” he murmured, wetting his lips. “Did you scream that way for him? Or was he too much of a pussy to treat you like a real wizard should?”

Fleur refused to answer, avoiding his gaze indignantly. Her head turned, the motion of that alone sending more stars to dance before her eyes.

“I must confess, I had an inkling that you were going to try and escape from him. I think he knew it too, but he didn’t bother to try and stop you. Probably wanted to hear you sing and see you dance. That is your specialty, aside from being a whore,” Macnair tapped her on the nose with his wand. “You’ve had Barty wrapped around your pretty little finger for so long, he’s not even aware of it anymore. A disgusting half-breed like you managed to snare one of our most loyal members.”

Fleur glared at him, eyes blazing defiantly. Macnair sneered, leaning down even further. They were nose to nose, forehead to forehead now. Her chest constricted at the close proximity, heaving up and down as her heart picked up its pace. She didn’t have to be a Legilimens to know what he was going to do.

“You must be something special,” Macnair murmured above her lips, still not quite touching. “You’re not just a bed warmer to him. I think the bastard actually loves you. And I find that absolutely disgusting.”

“Then get off me,” Fleur rasped, voice practically inaudible. “Let me go!”

Suddenly, Macnair laughed. The sound of it reverberated against her chest, sending more waves of pain to flow through her body. She grimaced, holding back the urge to wretch. Wet lips met her cheek as he took in a breath. “Let you go? I was an expecting a “just kill me,” but this is more interesting,” he leered, taking a provocatively slow lick against her cheek. “No, sweetheart, I’m gonna find out what makes you so special. And then, pretty, then I will kill you.”

Before she could attempt a yell, his mouth was over hers. It was nothing like when Barty kissed her, which differed upon what sort of mood he was in, but normally was coaxing. This was bruising, demanding and there he was, shoving his tongue into her mouth. She choked, her hands unable to even lift themselves to try and push him away. His teeth clacked painfully against hers, snagging her upper lip in the process. Blood trickled from the wound, and he quickly lapped it up. His fingers in a vice-like grip against her jaw.

Everything about this seemed completely surreal to Fleur. She was used to Barty’s slighter, leaner frame over hers. She didn’t expect it, but Barty was still quite strong to hold her. Macnair’s build was much different. His frame hulked over hers, muscled from his job at the ministry and more dangerous to look at. Strength was not in her favor, and now here he was, going to rape her just as Barty had done.

A few tears ran down Fleur’s face as Macnair continued to assault her mouth. The word rape had lost all meaning to her. She didn’t feel angry, or scared, just defeated. Men were going to take what they wanted from her. Whether she wanted it or not, they would not care about her feelings at all. Her body was too depleted from energy to fight him.

“ _Why bother_?” a dark voice, echoing somewhere from her pounding skull, whispered to her. “ _It’s just easier to lie there, isn’t it? Why fight? What has that done for you so far? No one’s going to rescue you, not even yourself_.”

“ _No_!” there was another voice now, muffled slightly, but still present. “ _Get up! Goddamn it Fleur, you useless bitch, kick him! Bite him! Do something_!”

“ _But you’re tired_ ,” the other voice whispered seductively. “ _Why don’t you just let go? It’ll all be over soon, you’ll see. Wouldn’t it be nice to not have to worry anymore? Doesn’t that sound good_?”

“ _No_!” the other voice snapped. “ _You are not just going to sit here and be raped again! If you don’t fight him, you will die_!”

“ _Why don’t you both just shut up_?” Fleur muttered to them silently, vaguely registering the feeling of her shirt being pushed up. “ _I don’t want to think anymore. Leave me alone_.”

Macnair breathed heavily against her clavicle, pressing searing kisses that burned along her skin. He pinched at her right nipple, so hard that she thought that it was going to bleed. She groaned sharply; a sound of pain that made his smile wider. He pressed his mouth to the bud, and she was reminded once again of the stark difference. Barty was much more methodical about how he did that, well, aside from the first time. Macnair didn’t even use his tongue to try and stimulate it, he just bit down hard. Ah, Fleur reminded herself. This wasn’t about her pleasure. That was another difference.

Roughly, her jeans and knickers were shoved down to her knees. She lay exposed to the night air, which felt strange against her mound. Macnair released her nipple, now staring down at the prize he desired. “Bet that must feel nice,” he muttered as she twitched against his finger running down the slit to her opening. “I heard veela have such nice little cunts. Always tight even after they’ve been used.”

She cried out when two fingers slid into her. The force of the penetration enough to send her reeling. No preparation at all, he stuck his fingers in her dry and relished when she cried in pain. His nails scrapped hard against her wall, and she was all too aware of the small trickle of blood that was slowly beginning to make its way down her leg.

“So it’s true,” Macnair leered, adding another finger none too gently into her. Ignoring her anguish. “After all this time, your cunt is still so fucking tight.”

She noticed his other hand, reaching into his trousers to stroke himself. She shook her head, lips trembling at the thought of what was to come. Dry sex was painful, and though Barty always made sure she was ready, she remembered that time under the Imperious Curse. She had no doubt in mind that Macnair wanted to fuck her till his cock was covered in her blood.

“Bet you’re gonna feel so nice around my prick,” Macnair whispered in her ear, biting down hard on the shell. “Maybe I won’t kill you after all, hm? I’ll take you back to my home and show you how a real man fucks a woman. Offer you to my friends if I’m feeling generous. Get people to owe me if they want to fuck my veela. Barty will be so bloody jealous when he sees you at meetings, naked, on my lap with a collar around your neck. Fuck, that sounds hot. Don’t you agree?”

She could see the bulge in his trousers, and she wondered how big he was. Impossible to tell, but it wasn’t as though she’d so many in her. She wasn’t, after all, a whore. But she supposed that once he was done, she would be.

Fleur didn’t want to die, but she also couldn’t imagine herself living in the care of this man. Death would come to her early, and then what would happen to her body? She doubted some of these men had any respect for the dead. Would her corpse be used as a means for their pleasure? Just thinking about that made the bile rise up out of her stomach.

“This is where you belong,” Macnair hissed, finally leaning back to take himself out of his trousers. He fiddled with the buttons, pulling the zipper down as he grinned. “Legs spread, awaiting your masters to fuck you. This is your place in life.”

Staring up at the night sky, Fleur thought that it with all the stars in the sky, it was rather beautiful. At least she would be able to see something nice before it all ended. She turned her head slowly, and for a split second, she thought she saw someone watching her. A pale face, looking back at her impassively with dark eyes. She didn’t recognize them, and when she blinked, they were gone. Perhaps with her draining spirit, she was hallucinating. Yes, that sounded right.

“ _Flipendo_!”

The heavy pressure that hovered over her suddenly flew off of her. Macnair scrambled to catch his footing but was too late to stop his body from making a painful thud against a large boulder. Distantly, Fleur heard the crack of a bone being broken or dislocated, but she found her attention centered on something else. No, someone else.

Barty, with murder in his eyes and teeth bared in a snarl, stood where his wand had previously been on the floor. Weakly, Fleur sat up, adjusting her shirt and slowly beginning to manage to pull her jeans back on. His gaze wasn’t on her, rather on the Death Eater who gripped his left shoulder in pain. Hell was about to be unleashed on the Death Eater.

And Fleur found she didn’t care.

Her head beginning to clear up somewhat, Fleur placed her head in her hands. The pounding in her head echoed like a drum, constant and rattling against her skull. She couldn’t stop breathing heavily, though she now wondered if she’d managed to break a rib or two from earlier. Breathing hurt like a bitch, made worse by the imprints of Macnair’s fingers on her skin. Little crescent moon marks on her death white flesh.

“So,” Macnair groaned as he hobbled forward, wincing as he rotated his wounded shoulder. “You managed to break the little whore’s control.”

Barty, blood lust still in his eyes, regarded Macnair with a sort of smile. Not a pleasant one, as if he were speaking to an old friend, but one that made Fleur’s blood run cold. “You thought that by disapparating from the colony, you would be able to sneak up on her and take her from me,” Barty began smoothly, his conversational tone not matching the situation at all. His smile didn’t change. “I must admit, it was a clever idea. One I would not think you capable of, Walden.”

He wasn’t just angry, no, he was livid. Barty may have appeared and sounded calm, but Fleur knew him better than anyone. Oh, he was keeping up his pretense well, but Fleur watched as that tongue of his darted in and out, quickly like a snake. Dangerous, she deduced and quickly scooted back to lean her still lowered body out of the way. Barty glanced at her coldly but said nothing.

Macnair sneered. “Always thought you were the most brilliant out of all of us, didn’t you? Just because Bellatrix was fond of you and the Dark Lord favors you. Well, favor can change quick as a snitch, don’t you know, Crouch? The veela will be mine; I’ve served the Dark Lord longer than you have.”

“True,” Barty inclined his head. “But my loyalty never wavered. I went to Azkaban for it; I waited even under imprisonment to look for our Master. But did you? Ah, well, we know the answer that. You claim loyalty, but let’s be honest with ourselves, Walden. You’re nothing but a simpering, coward.”

“You insolent little-”

But Barty interrupted him, and though Fleur half expected him to lose his composure in a fit of rage, he didn’t. He still smiled threateningly, except, now that her vision was staring to get slightly better, it wasn’t really a smile. It was a challenge. One he hoped Macnair would take so he could show power over him. She shivered, shaking arms wrapping around herself against the mountain chill.

“There is a way to settle this,” Barty began, idly twirling his wand between pale fingers. “Although my blood is purer than yours; you are not even a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, I think we can both agree that a duel is the best way to settle this.”

A duel? Fleur looked sharply towards Barty, although she instantly regretted that when a new wave a nausea cascaded over her. They still remained in giant territory and he wanted to duel? For the right for which wizard to claim her? Something in her chest sparked at the thought, a tiny ember of fury igniting. Barty caught her gaze and fucking _smirked_ towards her. She glared back in response.

“A duel?” Macnair inquired, and a similar fucking smirk grew on his thin lips. “I think you’re a bit out of practice, Crouch. But I agree, that is the only way to settle this. A pity you didn’t just give her to me in the first place. We could have even shared her, but it seems you just wanted to be selfish. Still, the old ways are best when it comes to these sorts of situation.”

“Clearly,” Barty sneered, his head doing an odd sort of tick. She frowned at the slightest hint of him losing his cool. Still, there was no way she was getting involved in this. No matter how angry she grew at the sight of Macnair, speaking about her as if…as if…

She were a trinket.

Something in Fleur’s chest scratched, hot pinpricks of sharp nails clawing at the bones in her ribcage. That white hot fury itched at something to take its wrath out on. It burned painfully at her lungs; up to her throat until all she could feel was hate. The lower part of her anatomy still stung painfully, very much aware of what would happen to her if Barty lost. Macnair’s fingers had left their marks on her body, unwelcomed intruders on what was not _his._

She shook that thought aside, not quite sure where that thought came from. Not that it mattered, not when a duel was about to take place. Did the Dark Lord know this was going to happen? Or was this stupid mission merely a test on Barty? That had to be what this was; why they had to journey by foot to get to the colony.

She wondered though if Barty knew this.

The two wizards circled each other, stone gray meeting dark brown that seemed black in the limited light. Aside from the moon above, Fleur could not see well in the dark. She could barely make out the sight of Barty standing in front of her. Tall, head held high and his cloak swaying in the slight breeze. Crawling on her hands and knees, she hid behind the rock, hands scraping on the uneven surface. Absently, her fingers trailed over the rocks, a few of them big enough for her to fit into her hand. Sharp too, she found out the hard way when one scratched against her hand. The blood looking black in the mid-August moonlight.

With a flourish of his rather short wand, Macnair cast out before Barty moved, wand high in the air. “ _Expulso_!”

Immediately, Fleur covered her head as rocks from one side of the mountain rumbled with the force of the curse. Heavy rocks tumbled to the ground, rolling down from up high, definitely large enough to kill a person or at the least, knock them unconscious. Grinning madly, Barty nonverbally waved his wand. The rocks slowed in their movement down the side of the mountain, landing soundlessly to the ground in a heap.

Not before Barty effortlessly waved a few of them in the direction of Macnair. The Death Eater dodged quickly, throwing himself to the side and landing with his left shoulder on the ground. He grunted in pain. The dust from the impact eventually settled, with Macnair standing up and staring with pure murder at his colleague. A thick heavy gash sat near his temple, bleeding profusely. An open wound was never a good thing to have during a duel. Yet the rage in her howled in delight at seeing him in obvious pain.

She thought she should be disturbed by it, but she wasn’t. Fleur wanted to see him bleed even more, and a part of her wondered if this was normal. Quickly, the white-hot rage shoved the doubt aside. Why should she care if he got hurt? If Barty hadn’t of shown up, what would have happened then? She knew the answer to that question, instinctively wrapping her hands into fists. The blood from her cut seeped onto her now dirt covered hands, trickling down onto the rocks.

Fleur’s mangled lip stung when she tried to wet her lips. Caked in dried blood, congealed and cracked. The now browning blood had drizzled down her chin like so much rain down a windowpane. It felt swollen from the bruising way Macnair assaulted her face, and parts of her jaw she was certain had bruised.

The two Death Eaters were casting spells out nonverbally, and it didn’t take Fleur too long to realize the intent wasn’t to disarm the other, it was to kill. A jet of green light shot from Macnair’s wand, narrowly missing Barty by an inch. The spell hit a large boulder instead, and it shattered into hundreds of smaller rocks. Fleur had to duck again from the impact. Though she kneeled with her hands over her head, she let out a startled cry when a particularly large rock slammed down against her hands. She heard a painful crack, and shooting pain ran through two of her left fingers.

Broken, she decided when the dust eventually settled, and the duel resumed. Barty had heard her cry of pain, and the curse he sent towards Macnair was particularly painful. His eyes glimmered delightedly, his tongue flicking out as he grinned maliciously. From the swelling of Macnair’s face, and the way the man groaned, Fleur recognized the stinging jinx. It looked painful, not that she’d ever been on the receiving end of one.

“ _Crucio_!”

Fleur flinched, but then she realized the curse had not been sent her way. Barty stood over Macnair, wand pointed towards the fallen Death Eater. The ragged scream that escaped Macnair’s body made the hairs on her neck rise, and strange sick feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. Her hands rose before she could stop them, covering her ears. Macnair just kept screaming, and she sat there and watched. Only moments ago (or was it longer?), that had been her lying on the ground. Screaming and crying while he stood over her, completely enthralled by what he was doing.

He held no remorse for his actions. Hell, he seemed to take a sick sort of satisfaction from seeing her writhe around in unrelenting pain. She didn’t want to watch this, but at the same time, she could not tear her eyes away. She had no pity for him, and she wanted him to suffer. Still, though, the sight of him like this was a little too close to home for her.

“ _And why should you feel bad for him_?” there was that voice again, and for the life of her, Fleur knew she had heard it somewhere. She just didn’t know whose it was. “ _He didn’t care that he was hurting you. Could you imagine being with him for the rest of your life? A slave for his own pleasure, his to fuck whenever he pleases. If I were you, I would rather die than suffer a fate such as that_.”

“ _But I want to live_ ,” Fleur replied back, cradling the fingers that were most certainly broken. “ _I don’t want to be ‘is slave_.”

“ _At least the other one didn’t treat you like a slave_ ,” the voice commented silkily. “ _I’ve seen this story before, countless of times. It’s been said that wisdom consists of knowing how to distinguish the nature of trouble, and in choosing the lesser evil._ ”

Fleur frowned, still unable to tear her eyes away from the scene before her. “ _But even the lesser evil is still evil_ ,” she said to the voice. “ _I don’t think I want to choose_.”

“ _Ah, but life is full of choices. Full of paths, and though my dear I know you would like to choose a third option, sometimes we must take what is right in front of us. I see right now, two paths for you to take. One evil, and one a lesser evil. You want to live, don’t you_?”

“ _Yes_.”

Biting her injured lip, to remind herself she was still there, Fleur observed the scene before her. She didn’t want to choose; both options were terrible. One would lead her down a path of despair and misery till she arrived at death’s door. The other was a path of uncertainty, and she didn’t like that either. She liked knowing where she was going in life; of what was ahead. Though the future was often unclear, she’d always had her support system behind her. Now that was nowhere in sight, and she was alone.

No, she narrowed her eyes towards the other path. Not alone, he lingered over her like a shadow.

“ _If you stay here, you will die. If you want to live so badly, then you need to go back to the world. Or perhaps you don’t want to live. Perhaps surrender would be easier. You’re close to it, I can feel your spirit draining. You’ve done so well, little one. If you would prefer, you don’t have to make the choice_.”

Her spirit was draining, Fleur could feel it. Every breath was a struggle for air; to will her heart to keep beating. It would be easier, she thought through the hazy recesses of her mind, to just give up. She was a Delacour, the granddaughter of a proud veela, but at the same time, she was only human. She was tired, and all she wanted to do was sleep. Close her eyes, and just disappear.

A scream broke through her stream of consciousness. As if she were watching a movie, she watched as Macnair struck his foot out. A move she had not been expecting, and neither had Barty, for he lost his concentration. Macnair immediately took advantage of Barty’s fallen form hitting the rocks and fired the same curse. Barty howled, wand slipping from his hands and though it was only a few inches from his fingers, he couldn’t seem to grab it. Fleur understood immediately. That curse was horrible, and the only thing she hadn’t been able to focus on anything other than the pain. His fingers scrabbled for his wand, but he couldn’t.

Her heart leapt to her throat, and she brought a hand up to still the racing organ. Something tugged at her heart strings, was that pity? Despair? The intense look that Macnair gave Barty as the younger man thrashed on the rocky ground was of pure loathing. He was going to kill Barty, and Fleur wouldn’t be able to save herself from him. She looked at Barty, and his dark eyes met hers. All she could read in his gaze was pain and, damn him, it was that look he always gave her when he said, “I love you.”

Damn him, she thought with teeth curled back. Not a smile, but a grimace. Her hand subconsciously tightened around the rock covered with streaks of her blood. Damn him, he was not going to die here. After all the things he had done, he was not going to die like this. Not if Fleur had anything to say about it. She would not allow her fate to put into another person’s control.

“ _And what are you going to do_?” the voice seemed to smile, and she thought it sounded amused.

“ _I am going to live_ ,” she snarled towards the voice. “ _I am not just going to let ‘im die like this. If ‘e dies, then it is all over for me_.”

The voice said nothing in response, but Fleur paid no mind. She tightened her hold on the sharp rock and watched as Macnair turned his back to her. With shaking legs, she managed to stand as Barty’s screams still rang in her ears. She looked to the Death Eater torturing him, and a swell of hate flooded through her. The white in her howled its war cry, and she latched onto it. With its strength fueling her, she launched herself onto the unsuspecting Death Eater.

The first blow to his head took him by surprise. Macnair let out a disgruntled shout that quickly changed to pain when he fell to the ground. Her aching hand raised, Fleur slammed the rock into his temple, right were the gash was. The first impact of the rock hitting his skull, the jagged pieces breaking more skin sent sparks of blood to shoot up. They hit her face, running down her like tear marks.

He struggled, but somehow, (and Fleur was sure it was the adrenaline) she managed to hold him down. His wand skittered out of his hand from the surprise of her attack, but he was unable to shake her off. He should have been; he was larger and physically stronger than her, but Fleur held him down by the force of pure will. She jammed the rock down, over and over again.

“Stay,” _Smash_. “Down,” _Smash_. “Fucking,” _Smash_. “Filth!”

She brought the rock down hard, each blow sending more blood up to paint her face in a bloody portrait. The rock cut her hands, slicing the soft delicate flesh, but she was too engrossed in keeping him beneath her. He didn’t even have time to let out a scream as he struggled to regain the upper hand. Fleur vaguely registered the crack of his skull under the pressure of the rock. She slammed it down, repeatedly. An automatic motion that she couldn’t stop.

She didn’t want to stop.

The twisted white rage in her dug against her lungs; against her chest cavity, itching for more blood. Fleur let out a savage scream as she drew the rock down. He wasn’t putting up much of a fight now, she noticed vaguely. Her other hand gripped his slippery red throat, pressing down so hard her fingers could feel fresh blood seep underneath her nails. There was so much blood, but it wasn’t enough. All she could see in front of her was white, obstructing her vision. Her own blood roared in her ears, rendering her unable to hear anything outside of the wet impact the rock made on Macnair’s body.

She breathed heavily, unaware of how still his body was beneath hers. She kept bringing the rock down, over, and over, until something grabbed her wrist in mid-blow. The sensation broke her distorted vision, snapping her back to reality. Barty was looming over her, holding her wrist tightly. She couldn’t read the expression on him, but she thought appeared to be a mix of hesitation and…adoration?

“Darling,” Barty pulled her off Macnair, who sat so still; unmoving as she looked down at him. Hands brushed the stray limp hair out of her face, and those same pale hands tilted her chin to look at him. His endlessly dark eyes bore straight into hers. “You can stop now. He’s dead, Fleur.”

Dead?

He must have noticed her confusion. Wiping something black and squishy off her face, he never broke her gaze. “He’s dead, Fleur. He’s dead now. You killed him,” he pulled her closer, embracing her rigid form. “You did this.”

Dead?

No, that couldn’t be right. The past few minutes were a blur, she thought. She remembered attacking him, but he couldn’t be dead. She was many things, but she wasn’t a murderer. Her breathing labored, Fleur looked down at Macnair, and retched at the sight.

A scarlet liquid had drenched his dark cloak, gleaming black in the light of the moon. The light had left his eyes, as the color from his rosy cheeks vanished. He looked as if ice had struck him, leaving his mouth open in a silent scream. What bothered her most though, was the almost unrecognizable mess that was his face. Bludgeoned, sunken in from the impact of the rock she beat him to death with. His nose a mangled mess and thick, black blood leaked from his nose, eyes, and ears.

Horrified, she stared at the blood with fear. She felt her own hands drenched with the oozing red liquid as clear as rubies. The rubies floated down her hand, a perfidy treasure or a curse. She didn't remember what happened. She killed someone? Blood vividly appeared in her mind portraying its deadly, but beautiful, shades of red. With a start, only then she realized the bloodshed was hers.

She retched again, sinking out of Barty’s hold and to the ground. On her hands and knees, saliva and whatever else was in her stomach, poured itself to the stones beneath her hands. Her heart pounding, stomach heaving, she couldn’t stop from ejecting the contents of her stomach. A hand was on her back, rubbing soothing circles and pulling the hair from her face.

She retched and retched again, until all she could see was black, and then no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooooo boy, that is a lot to take in. Poor Fleur, she's even more traumatized. Macnair deserved it; he's a filth fucking human, but this is something Fleur has never done before. Probably something she never thought herself capable of doing. It's a lot to digest, so our girl needs some much needed therapy. Is she going to get it? Probably not. She just can't seem to get a win, can she? (That is entirely my fault, thought).
> 
> If you guys feel sorry for Barty, don't feel guilty about that! He's a terrible person, but even Fleur stopped and pitied him. Thing is, she will not excuse what he did, and she doesn't expect him to change, nor is she going to make him. I always found that bothersome in some stories or fics where the heroine is there to "fix" the villain. I have seen it done interestingly before, but only when the villain doesn't do it to earn her affections, he does it because he wants genuinely change as a person. But at the end of the day, Fleur is not there to "fix" anyone. Sorry about that little rant there, just had to get that off my chest. 
> 
> We will be seeing the other tags I have listed up there soon. Their relationship is...complicated. And I am working super hard to show that in future chapters. As always, let me know what you think! Also, feel free to share with me headcanons or ideas you have, I love hearing from you guys. I am working on another story for this couple, but its set in a good!Barty universe. If you have ideas for that too, I'd love to hear it. 
> 
> I might have chapter nineteen up by Thursday, but I can't make a guarantee. But, I hope you all have a wonderful day! As always, stay safe my darlings! I know times are scary, but we will get through this! See you all next time!


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Guess who's here with chapter 19! 
> 
> Fleur's out for the count right now, so we get another look into the psyche of Barty's mind. You all have no idea how badly I want to kick him in the teeth every chapter, but then he wouldn't be Barty if he wasn't *glares at him from the distance*
> 
> Before I forget to mention, I did make an edit on chapter 3! I tweaked Fleur's age a little, so she is eighteen right now. This is because I had to change it for the Darksoulmate!AU that I am working on for them, and I had to fix her age to match with the date I selected for her birthday. My headcanon for Fleur is that she was born on September 25, 1976. Until J.K. Rowling gives her a birth date, this is what I am going with. 
> 
> Alright, I'll stop rambling now. As always, thank you guys so much for all the feedback! You guys are so awesome and I love how interested you all are in this! Happy readings!

She was so still on the bed, like one of the porcelain baby dolls his parents had in the attic. Paper white skin framed by long black eyelashes and bright rosy cheeks. She even had the sapphire blue eyes to match. Yet Barty thought she more resembled that of a corpse.

In the inn where he’d sought refuge, Fleur lay on their bed without moving. Not even a twitch of muscle or the flutter of eyes moving. When she slept, she usually grumbled in her sleep about whatever had earned her disapproval in some dream. Endearing, he always thought, and now that she was so unmoving, he wished he could see her like that again.

Yelena had scrubbed her body clean of blood and tossed the bloodied clothes into the garbage. “No saving them,” the Russian woman said tightly through thin pursed lips. Her eyes burning like steel. “Blood does not come out.”

Barty wanted to roll his eyes and use magic to prove that it could, but the intensity of her gaze made him reconsider. He allowed her to toss the clothes away, leaving Fleur in a robe that would have made her look like an angel if not for the dead expression on her face. Her skin felt so cold and sallow under his touch. Her bones almost emaciated due from how her cheek bones jutted out from her face. Even her beautiful hair felt thin and brittle, as though it would snap off if he tried to touch it. More grayish-white than silver now.

“She vill not die,” Yelena murmured, but Barty wasn’t sure if she were speaking more to him or to herself. When she wasn’t busy, she would sit by the bed and hold the young woman’s cold hand, speaking to her in soft, gentle Russian. “She is young. Strong. She vill recover.”

Neither she nor her husband, Ilya, asked what had happened. He’d been prepared for questioning, but it never came. He’d barged in, unannounced to their inn with Fleur unconscious in his arms. Everyone in the inn stared, but he paid them no mind, solely focused on Yelena’s surprised and horrified gaze. The blood on Fleur dripped to the floor, staining him and creating a scene that made him appear like a grazed lunatic. Which, if Fleur were awake, she would probably say that he was.

Barty half expected a healer to be called, but Yelena had moved into action, motioning for him to follow her. He was surprised to find out that she had basic healing abilities, enough that she closed the wound on Fleur’s hand and reversed the dark purple bruising on her ribs. She did not, however, have the power to wake her up.

“Whatever she did to herself, is has affected her greatly,” Yelena explained curtly. “As I healed her, I noticed her magic pulse is very veak. It vill take time for her to recover fully. She vill need rest. No rough activities.”

She then gave him a very pointed look before leaving, wiping her red stained hands on a washcloth. Outside the door, her daughter had been taking in the scene with wide eyes. More than likely shaken by what she’d seen. He didn’t blame her; seeing Fleur like this was enough to turn his stomach.

That, was over fourteen days ago, and still she remained asleep. August was about to change into September. Over two weeks alone with his thoughts had given him much to think about.

As Barty stared over her still form, he couldn’t decide if he was angry, or more amazed by what she did. He was angry with himself for being so easily caught off guard. He’d never seen her dance or sing like that. With her skin shining so bright she looked like a radiant star from the heavens come down to earth. An enchantress in mortal form. When she smiled at him, he never wanted to see her do that towards anyone else.

But then, he’d fallen under her power. Occlumency had always come naturally to him, but he had not thrown up his defenses fast enough. Her magic drowned out his; smothered his will and even now, he could still hear her voice inside his head. Whispering, echoing around in there like a cave. Her pure, raw magic was light and refreshing when it connected to his. A breath of spring rain that rejuvenated him. A ray of sunshine through his darkness. Her power, her very soul, radiated like a diamond through the darkness.

The hardest kind of stone; it easily survived. His father had told him that once, though he could not remember for the life of him when. He felt her cold hand, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles as he thought. He should be angry with her for the daring stunt she had pulled, but all he could feel was astonishment. A brave, though a bit headstrong, but incredibly resilient and fearless girl. She would bow to no one, not even him.

And he loved her more for it.

He was, he would admit, a bit angry that she tried to run away. Yet at the same time, he knew it was his own fault. At some point, she would try and flee, and he should have thrown up his mental defenses sooner. But perhaps a part of him wanted to know what it would feel like to be under her influence. The Imperious curse was akin to being in a glass box. One was aware of the world going on around them, but unable to interact with it. Suffocating, he remembered vividly, but with her, it was a refreshing cool breeze.

He would not allow this to happen again. If she did this again, there was no telling what could happen. She was close, so very close to death or so Yelena had said. However, he couldn’t blame Fleur for trying. They were similar in the way they relished their freedom, and one day, when the Dark Lord had conquered those who stood in his way, she would have a sense of it. As soon as she realized that he wasn’t going to be leaving her anytime soon. It was a strange way to show love, he knew this, but he didn’t to see what the new world would do to her.

It would crush her. If he wasn’t there beside her, it would cage her like a delicate butterfly. Though her will was impressively strong, and no matter how hard she would try to fly away, it would suffocate her. They would tear off her wings and leave her in ruins. But with him protecting her, there was still a chance for her survival. Her sprit might be a little restricted, she would still be able to fly. All she had to do was accept him, and he would give her the world.

If only she would stop being so damn difficult. That would make things a lot more breathable. As much as he enjoyed their games; their little war of wills, he would win in the end. He knew, deep down on a subconscious level, she knew this. She was just persistent, and hell bent on defying him at every turn. Endearing, he still thought with a smile, but tiring as well. He just wanted her safe; why couldn’t she see that?

“Is she awake yet?”

The new voice snapped him out of his thoughts, and he lifted his head up sharply to see a pair of large round blue eyes staring at Fleur’s peaceful form. She stepped cautiously into the room; her book clutched close to her chest. She glanced over shoulder quickly, as if half expecting her mother or father to enter the room and chase her out. One of the first things he noticed upon staying here, was how infrequent the girl’s visits were. Even then, they were always with Yelena or Ilya. They never let her out of their sights for too long. Distantly, he wondered why that was.

His parents were the same, in a way. More his mother than his father, but even when he was very young, he knew why. They never told him, but he knew. When he was four, Barty was supposed to have a baby sister. The nursery was ready, the same crib he’d slept in for the first year of his life, and the room full of lace and frills. She was around five months when his mother suddenly miscarried, and he remembered being told that it was because she was unwell. But he knew, and his parents never tried for another baby again.

His mother, after recovering, hovered around him. She had to know where he was at all times and would become very distressed if she didn’t know. He couldn’t recall how long this behavior lasted, but he vaguely wondered if Yelena was the same way with…with…what was her name again?

“No,” he told the girl shortly.

In response, the girl let out a huff of exasperation. From his spot on his chair, he watched as she carefully sat on the end of the bed near Fleur’s legs. She didn’t touch her, but she stared at her with something akin to impatience. Like she was longing for a playmate. The book sat in her lap, in a language he could not read, but he recognized it as _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_. She glanced at him, biting her lip as if holding back a question she wanted to ask.

Barty knew that she was visiting Fleur when he wasn’t there. When he would go to eat or close his eyes for a few minutes, he would hear her. Sometimes reading to Fleur from whatever book she had, or just speaking to her in quick Russian or basic English. Other times she would sing little lullabies, none of which he could understand. She would even braid her ashen hair, and he found that despite his distrust of these people, he didn’t feel the need to undo the child’s work.

The girl still glanced at him apprehensively, flipping through the pages in her book. She didn’t say anything, which he found rather annoying, but said nothing. She didn’t seem afraid of him, sitting there with her tongue poking her cheek and clicking it rather irritatingly. Her parents were certainly wary around him, but like her mother, she seemed to be determinedly set on not letting him deter her from doing what she wanted to accomplish.

“How did this happen to her?”

Ah, there was the question. She turned her body to look at him better, the book now set on the edge of the bed. Her eyes were lighter than Fleur’s, like the skies in December and just as piercing as her mother’s. He glanced back to Fleur, asleep still, and shook his head. “I don’t know,” he lied, returning to meet her gaze. “I was not there.”

She frowned, fingers tightening on the sheets beneath her small fingers. “She looks like sleeping princess,” she said, fumbling over the words. Then she turned to him, head titled. “You is her husband?”

Well, that was one way of putting it. “Yes,” Barty lied again. “I am.”

“Maybe if you kiss her, she vill vake up.”

Distracted by the image that appeared in his head at the girl’s words, he wondered what Fleur would do if that worked. There was a chance she would snap; slap him or yell. Probably both, or perhaps she would simply glare at him with the intensity of an ice storm. Still, it would mean she was awake and back to her normal self. He wanted her back, no matter what sort of complications would arise from it.

This whole mission was a test, he knew that perfectly well going in. To see how useful Fleur could be; to see if he could keep his wits about him despite knowing that she could be in danger. His Lord knew that he didn’t want Fleur to go on the mission, but he would also not defy his master, the one who had allowed him to have her. How he would react to finding out Macnair’s fate, well, Barty didn’t know what that would be. It could be indifference, or absolute anger, depending on his mood. Macnair worked for the ministry; it made him a good spy to have. If the Dark Lord was angry, there was a possibility it would be taken out on Fleur.

And Barty would not be able to protect her from that. If he was truly angry, there was a chance, that she would be taken away from him. Or worse.

He had sent an owl to deliver the message to the Dark Lord that they had secured the giants, and about Macnair’s death and Fleur’s condition. It would be foolish to lie to his master, especially when he had ways of finding out. The crow that delivered his response, however, had not been what Barty was expecting. A simple response that stated that the Dark Lord was satisfied with his work, and that he expected to see him and Fleur when they returned.

Barty would heed those orders, though he found himself increasingly more worried about what that would mean for Fleur. Still, that was a problem for him to mull over later. Right now, he was more worried that she would never wake.

“I doubt that will work,” he sighed, returning back to the present. He looked towards the girl, who looked at him rather hopefully. “Life isn’t a fairytale.”

“Mama yesterday told me that she thinks she vill vake up soon,” the girl nodded to herself, agreeing with what she was saying. “I think so too.”

“How optimistic of you,” Barty sighed, giving a sort of smirk that fell as soon as it came. “But it might take longer than that.”

“It could happen soon!”

“It could.”

The girl wet her lips, swinging her legs out to dangle over the bed. She looked from Fleur to him, and then back to Fleur. “I one day vant to be pretty like her,” the girl said with a sigh. “I saw how she valked over street. Like ballerina. Very graceful.”

He fought the urge to roll his eyes, seeing how this was his first actual conversation with someone in days. “She is a veela,” he sighed. “Might want lower your standards a bit, Mollie.”

“ _Mashka_ ,” the girl corrected him, crossing her arms with a pout, with an extra emphasis on the pronunciation of her name. “My name is Mashka, not Mollie.”

“My apologies,” he rolled his eyes this time, and she tossed her head back in annoyance.

“Before I go back to school, I hope she vakes up,” Mashka said, ignoring his earlier response. “I cannot vait to have it back. Then I can practice magic! School takes wand every summer break.”

Barty didn’t know where in Russia, the magical school, Koldovstoretz was. Like Hogwarts and the other magical schools, it was concealed away. He knew students there started when they were seven, and judging from the looks of this girl, she couldn’t have been older than ten.

“How is that thing on your arm?”

It took him a moment to process what she was saying. While her English was slightly better than her mother’s and much better than her father’s, it still took him some time to figure out what she meant. How, apparently, meant what in their eyes.

“It is nothing,” he immediately shoved his sleeve down, preventing the mark from being seen. “Just a tattoo. You probably wouldn’t like it.”

That was true, and if she knew what it was, she would be scared of what it meant. He had no doubt in mind she knew what it meant; most children from wizard families did. But he wasn’t looking for trouble right now; Merlin help him if she reacted badly and went to her parents.

Mashka, however, pushed on. “I think I know vot it is,” she leaned forward, as if she had a magical eye that could get a closer look through his shirt sleeve. “Papa told me once about it, I think.”

“Mashka! _Chto ty zdes' delayesh_?”

Just as Ilya entered the room, came Mashka’s quick reply. A muddle of words that Barty didn’t recognize and could not keep up with. The girl jumped off the edge of the bed, standing before her father with her eyes lowered, but shining defiantly. It was an eerily familiar scene, he thought. Imagining momentarily that instead of the girl and her father, it was his and a younger version of himself. Just as quickly as it appeared, it vanished when Mashka darted off.

Ilya fixed him with a stern look. Those frosty blue eyes, the same color as his daughter’s, attempted to pierce through Barty’s soul. With a sigh, Ilya ran a hand through his graying dark hair and inclined his head. “Come,” he said, his accent as thick as his wife’s and child. “Follow me. Yelena vill look after girl.”

Well, Barty wasn’t really in a position to decline, was he? Technically he could, but he wasn’t in a mood to fight and he didn’t know what else these people knew. If Yelena had untold healing capabilities, what could Ilya do? So he followed Ilya through the lamp lit hallway and down the stairs, returning to the main siting area. No one was in the small inn, and he wondered if that was because he and his unconscious veela were there.

He followed Ilya through the doors to the kitchen, taking a seat at the small table where Ilya motioned for him to sit. The kitchen hadn’t changed since the last time he’d been there. Same tea stained counters, and shabby cabinets containing chipped and cracked old mugs. An ancient looking stove that had clearly seen better days. Yet despite its flaws, it smelled of freshly baked bread and brewed tea, so Barty kept his comments to himself.

Ilya reached into an old icebox, pulling out a bottle of clear liquid. He set it down without a word, quietly opening the cabinet full of cups and took out two shot glasses. Firmly, he set them down and took a seat across Barty. That piercing gaze never left his, and with a nod of his chin, Barty stared defiantly back.

“You found giants,” Ilya started, unscrewing the bottle and poured it equally into the two glasses. He pushed one in Barty’s direction. “And they did not kill you. Congratulations.”

The older man took a glass, tossing it back without so much of a grimace at the strong smell of alcohol. It was a muggle drink, but for once, Barty thought that it actually looked inviting. It didn’t smell like Fire whisky, that was for certain. He took the glass in hand, tossing it back like the older man. He nearly choked on it, unused to the strong flavor. The way it burned down his throat was no issue, in fact, he found it sort of soothing. The way it lit up his chest with a flutter of warmth that he hadn’t felt in days.

Ilya smiled at him, though it didn’t reach his December blues. “I may be old man,’ Ilya started, and when he smiled it made the creases around his eyes crinkle. “But I know there vas three of you earlier. Vot happened to third man?”

“Dead,” Barty answered automatically, the image still quite vivid in his head.

“Ah, shame,” Ilya replied, and Barty thought he didn’t sound sorry in the slightest. “So you killed him.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“So giants kill him,” Ilya suggested, raising a dark eyebrow. “Or perhaps your vife did.”

Barty didn’t meet his gaze, and when he didn’t, Ilya sighed and shook his head. “There is no need to lie,” the old man said plainly. “I saw how other man looked at her. Either she defended herself, or you defended her. As husband should.”

There was a definite emphasis on the word “should” that Barty could not ignore, even if he wanted to. His face blank, Barty’s expression betrayed no emotion. Like a flat smooth stone endured by time and the sheer force of nature. He had come far, farther than so many others and he would not allow this pathetic old man attempt to intimidate him. He’d endured worse than this. Bellatrix’s unpredictable volatile moods were infamous even amongst the unbranded Death Eaters. Rodolphus and his brother even worse with their callousness and insatiable desire for blood.

Despite their loyalty to their master, the rest was all a game to them. How long would so and so remain in favor with Lord Voldemort? How long would this Death Eater stay alive now that they were disgraced? Barty had learned quickly that to get in the Dark Lord’s favor, one had to prove themselves useful. Constantly. To be both a pawn and a queen on a chess board. A pawn because they were all disposable, but to be an important piece such as the queen, meant to be useful in many ways. To prove to the Dark Lord that he was not so easily replaced, was something he and the others would work their entire lives for.

Barty had shown how useful he could be, and the others envied him for it. He had gained himself a high position with their master. Yet his arrogance had nearly destroyed the one other person he truly gave a damn about besides his master. He had either passed or failed “test” the Dark Lord had given him.

The uncertainty of that made him long for another shot.

“You play dangerous game,” Ilya must have sensed his dark thoughts, for he immediately refilled the shot glasses. He spoke easily, as though there was nothing odd about this scenario. “Put people in danger. I have seen your kind before.”

Instinctively, Barty felt for his wand hidden away near his stomach. “Have you?” he asked quietly, a tiniest trace of a sneer in his voice.

Ilya shrugged. “I have seen dark wizards before. You is no different from them,” Ilya paused, and his eyes narrowed. His accent, strangely, was less pronounced than before, his syllables a near perfect sounding English. “Dark wizard terrorized my Yelena’s family. Her brothers were Russian Aurors, as you British call them. Said Dark wizard massacred her entire family. She is the sole survivor of Fedorovna clan.”

The name rang a distant bell in his mind. Barty thought that at one point in the past, he had asked Dolohov how he managed to obtain a position inner circle. It wasn’t simply for creating a curse so terrible that even Aurors feared it. Yet Dolohov merely smiled in that strange way of his and explained that he had wiped out an ancient clan in Russia, known for producing talented Aurors, and left only a newly wedded daughter alive.

Why he had killed them, Dolohov’s face had darkened. “They killed my father for a petty crime against some muggles,” he had practically whispered to Barty, a strange hostile glint burning in that cold gaze. It was, certainly, a tragic tale. A fifteen-year-old forced to become a man. His mother, in grief, pulled his thirteen-year-old sister out of school. When their mother slit her wrists out of shame, the girl went to work in a whorehouse, without her brother’s knowing. Some drunk Aurors, upon finding out who she was, had taken their turns with her and left her dead body in the ditches outside Moscow.

“I killed each one,” Dolohov had hissed under his breath. “Each Auror who had desecrated my dear little Nataliya. Then I went after the ones responsible for my father. If there’s anything I hate more than muggles, its blood-traitors. The Russian Ministry is just as corrupt as the British. We need to cleanse it, Barty. To put the right people in positions of power, so no one is screwed over by muggleborns and blood-traitors.”

For Dolohov, his service towards Lord Voldemort went deeper than Barty originally anticipated. In a rare ounce of respect towards the wizard, he refrained from ever repeating that story to anyone. Dolohov, one of the few he Death Eaters he got along with, had not turned his back on Lord Voldemort. Even when questioned, he had said nothing and went to Azkaban with confidence in their master. Whether it would take a year, or fourteen, he had no problem with waiting. Barty respected that.

Ilya, however, would not. Barty took the shot glass from the man once he retreated from his thoughts of his old friend. If Yelena was indeed the young witch that Dolohov had left alive, then her coldness to him made sense. She had never seen his mark; he always made sure it was concealed, but he had the feeling she knew. Or at the very least, had her suspicions.

“Must have been some dark wizard,” Barty said, breaking the heavy silence. He downed the shot, more prepared for the burn the alcohol gave him. “If your Aurors could not catch him.”

“Very,” Ilya said, his voice flat. “He is in Azkaban now. Have you ever been there?”

“No,” Barty lied, his voice as even as the old man’s. “No, I have not.”

But even as he spoke, images of that horrid prison crept into his mind. His skin felt cold, ever-present chill seep into his bones. He could almost taste the salt of the sea on his lips, and though he was thousands of miles away from that fortress, he remembered it as though it were only yesterday. Not one prisoner on the top level was there for a short time. No, they were there to die. If his mother hadn’t taken his place, he would be in the grave that currently bore his name.

A peculiar thought echoed in Barty’s mind. Was his name still on that grave? Or had it been dug up for further inspection? What about the Crouch family crypt, where the grave that held his mother’s name, but no body. Would the ministry have dug that up too? He doubted it; Narcissa usually sent him the _Dailey Prophet_ once she and her family were done with it. The paper held no mention of mention of him, aside from when his father’s death had been announced.

Even then, he thought wryly, there were speculations on that. People were either convinced he was alive, or people who thought that Dumbledore was trying to stir up trouble. The ministry had grown fat and lazy in the fourteen years of peace. Now, that was about to change, and Fudge refused to accept what was right in front of him. Oh, how he longed to see the Minister for Magic’s face when Lord Voldemort finally revealed himself to be very much alive.

Still, that day was a long time away, and Barty had to remind himself to play it safe. Ilya stared across the table at him, and he could see the man did not believe him in the slightest.

“Russian Ministry does not send criminals to Azkaban,” Ilya leaned back, folding his strong arms across his chest. “Criminals used to be sent to Siberia.”

“Must be cold there.”

The smile on Ilya’s face held no trace of amusement or warmth. It was as cold as his eyes. “Very cold,” the man said, nodding in agreement. “Very few have ever come back from Siberia. Those who did, vell, they not look the same. Some had missing limbs. Unable to grow back.”

So, Dolohov’s father had been sent to Siberia, then. The wizard had never confirmed that, but from the way Ilya spoke, it seemed likely. “You said they used to,” Barty held onto those particular words, raising his eyes. “They don’t now?”

“No,” Ilya frowned. “They go now to prison off coast of East Siberian Sea. No dementors, though. President Lipovsky no likes them. She says they is not trustworthy. Too much of risk.”

Barty remained passive. Russian President Mila Lipovsky was no supporter of Lord Voldemort, and neither had her predecessor. The tidbits of information he could recall hearing from his father as he muttered about in his office during his imprisonment had gone straight to the Dark Lord. When his master finally took over Britain and looked towards the rest of the world, Barty knew that Russia would not surrender so easily. It wasn’t in their nature as a people, and they had convinced themselves that they had endured worse.

At least, that’s what Barty had gathered during his time at the Ministry. Meeting the Russian delegation could be difficult, especially during the First War. The Russian magical community, he thought gravely, were not so easy to scare.

“If you is not careful, you vill end up in prison,” Ilya continued on, as though another heavy silence had not passed. “I do not know who you are, but I do not trust you.”

“Not many do,” Barty said back, his voice like ice. “And I don’t care if you do or not.”

“I have let you and your vife stay here while she recovers,” and the man’s face softened at the mention of Fleur. He couldn’t recall them ever speaking, but he supposed it had to do with her veela nature, and the fact Yelena was treating her like her own. Ilya continued. “She is young, very young. Much too young to have seen vot she has.”

Barty couldn’t disagree, even though he knew full well that she was here because of him. The world was crammed with cruelty, and though she found it unfair of him to have exposed her to it, she would have to come to accept that life wasn’t fair. It was every wizard for himself, something he had learned early on. It wasn’t fair in the way it had treated his mother, and it wasn’t fair for giving him such a sorry excuse for a father. His world was just as dark; those were the facts, and he did not regret dragging her into it.

“She is young,” Barty agreed. “But she will be fine.”

After she accepted what she’d done, and Barty suspected that would not be easy for her. The first kill was never easy, not even for him. Yet once he’d done it and had quickly come to accept that it was better for the muggles, he found it almost easy. Like tying his shoes. Yet he’d never gone to such lengths as some of the others. His kill count was lower than Rowle’s and much, much lower than Bellatrix’s.

“She is very young,” and Ilya narrowed his eyes at that. “She is not in school, is she?”

“No,” Barty shook his head, and this was not a lie. She had recently turned eighteen when he first saw her, and her nineteenth birthday was approaching soon. Yet this was the first time someone had brought up the age difference between them. “She is eighteen; she has graduated.”

Not that it was uncommon either for witches and wizards to date people outside of school, especially among those only a few years apart. Narcissa had been in her seventh year when she planned her wedding to Lucius, who’d been two years out of school. His Aunt Walburga had been four years older than Orion when she married him soon after he graduated from Hogwarts. However, he and Fleur were around fourteen years apart. Not something that was seen very often, and he wasn’t surprised that some found it odd.

Yet none of the other Pureblood Death Eaters found anything strange about it. If anything, they kept their mouths shut and went about with their own business.

Except for Draco, who while still afraid of him, had sneered at him one day before a meeting. “You’re old enough to be her father,” he said with that slow drawl of his, an irritating mix of both his parents. “Couldn’t find a girl your own age?”

“Keep talking like that,” and the teenager flinched and stepped back when Barty had stepped forward, his smile threatening, and lazy, at the same time. “You’ll have to find a female ferret to copulate with. Not sure Ms. Parkinson will want to date one; I think her standards are bit higher than that.”

Teenagers, Barty thought with a roll of his eyes, remembering how the boy had scampered off with a scowl. Fourteen was hardly old enough to make him her father; unless he was an immature muggle teenage boy.

Still, he wasn’t sure that the Russian sitting before him believed him. The man blinked, before letting out a loud sighed and leaned close to rest his arms on the table. “You is too dangerous to have around,” the Russian said lowly, almost threateningly. “My vife does not trust you, and I agree with her. Tell me, British wizard, do you have children?”

Barty nearly choked on his breath. “Children? No, no,” he shook his head, barely able to imagine the thought. “My wife and I do not have children.”

Ilya let out a hum of acknowledgement. “Mashka is my only child; only daughter,” Ilya’s gaze, if possible, turned frostier. “I vould not vant to see her marry man like you. Vhen you become father, you vill understand.”

Well, he had no intentions of having children in the near future. He knew kept track of her cycle; he had no intention of getting her pregnant. Hypothetically, he wasn’t sure how the Dark Lord would react if he were to find out that she was expecting. If they did have a child, they most certainly could not carry his family name. He didn’t even have to ask Fleur to know what she would think about having his baby. From the way she reacted when they made love, she always made him use a condom. A surprisingly useful muggle invention that Narcissa had somehow managed to get her hands on. Hell, even the idea of Narcissa having to go out and buy condoms was enough to make him almost want to laugh.

“Of course not,” he said lazily to the other wizard. He was certainly not the type that most witches would want to bring home to their parents. Unless said parents were supporters of the Dark Lord.

“That is why I have decided that vhen she wakes up, you vill leave,” Ilya stated, his voice hard enough that Barty did not question him. “I have nothing against her, but I know how you is. You is powerful, more powerful than anyone else in village. My family is all I have. I vill not let you take that.”

“Fair enough,” Barty nodded his head. “When she is awake, we will leave.”

“Yelena agrees,” Ilya reached towards the bottle again, and once more, poured two shots. “Though she is apprehensive about condition of girl, she vill put our daughter first. You have mediwizards in Britain, no?”

“Yes,” Barty raised an eye at the obvious question. “Why wouldn’t we?”

“Then you can find someone to heal her there,” Ilya frowned heavily. “Believe me, I vant her to recover. But I do not vant my family to be in danger. My Yelena vas hesitant about this. She argued, but she eventually agreed. She cares about girl. So does my Mashka.”

Barty couldn’t imagine why. The two Russians barely knew Fleur, yet for some reason, they were attached. Again, he summed it up to Fleur’s veela nature. Yet he knew deep down that Yelena’s concern came from motherly worry and Mashka’s to that of curiosity. Yelena, however, had her suspicions. But her fear of him would prevent her from attacking him, for fear of what he could possibly do to her family. Fear was an interesting little emotion. For one so brave and unrelenting, she was certainly fearful of losing her husband and child. Just like she’d lost her family before.

Yet as of now, Barty had no reason to attack them. Unless they tried something, he would leave them in peace. He wasn’t particularly violent, but that could change if certain people were not too careful. This family would be safe, for now.

He took another shot and reveled in the burn it left down his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I guess that's what happens when business is slow. For certain, Ilya doesn't like or trust Barty (who does?), but he knows he is not strong enough to challenge Barty. Nearly three weeks might seem like a long time to stay asleep, however if I were Fleur, I'd probably want to sleep for a whole month. Except, I don't think that will help her for when she comes face to face with Voldemort. What do you guys think? Will he be angry with her or mildly impressed? Also not gonna lie, I am so looking forward to adding in all the locked up Death Eaters. Poor Fleur.
> 
> Yelena's healing skills probably came from when her brothers would come back home after work, and she would attend to them. She was mostly a self-taught healer, but she did help Fleur, so there's that.
> 
> Russian Transaltions (as always, feel free to correct me if I am wrong):  
> Chto ty zdes' delayesh?- What are you doing in here?
> 
> I think that's all for now, so I'll leave you guys here till next time! Next chapter is still being edited, and as much as I love writing Voldemort, damn he is hard to portray. I want him to come across as terrifying, but not too over the top either. If you guys have any advice on him, I'd love to hear. Take care! Bye!


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a day early, but I decided to release it so you guys can read it sooner. Hooo boy a lot happens. 
> 
> Thanks for all the reviews ^^ you guys are all so interesting in what you have to say, and it always makes my day. I've seen Snape's name mentioned quite a bit, and well, we'll be getting to that bit soon. The reason he isn't in this fic more is because he's at Hogwarts now. At this point in the timeline, his role as double agent is under suspicion by Voldemort and as much as I would love him to rescue Fleur, he won't risk it. Look at his actions in the later books, we know he will do what he can to make sure Voldemort doesn't suspect him. I do plan on him having a conversation with Fleur in a few more chapters, so don't worry!
> 
> So, let's get reading!
> 
> TW: There is a sex scene in here, so if you want to skip it, that's fine.

_J'ai trop vu, trop senti, trop aimé dans ma vie,_

_Je viens chercher vivant le calme du Léthé._

( _I have seen too much, felt too much, loved too much in my life,_ )

( _I come to seek, still living, the calm of Lethe_.)

 _Le Vallon_ , Alphonese de Lamartine

She was floating in a river of entire darkness.

The blackness was perfect, a sort of visual silence that gave a revered awe. With her eyes closed there was the simple sweetness of existing, of being, of breathing, and how those moments extended with such grace. There was nothing to worry about. No Death Eaters or a Dark Lord, terrifying giants and men with hunger in their eyes. She simply existed. The blackness was her protection, a place for her heart to beat in a steady rhythm.

The blackness engulfed her thoughts. Stretching out in front of her like a map, the unknown studied her fears, her courage and her knowledge. There was no life here, she soon realized. Nothing but simplicity, no people to bother her or any other signs of life except for the beating of her heart and the slow in and out of her lungs. The darkness had overcome any sense of purity and had wiped out all desire she had.

And Fleur, in spite of it all, didn’t find it that bad. It was safe here, cradled in a cocoon of pure darkness. There was no need for anything; no desires except for one. Despite the blankness of her mind, she wasn’t sure she wanted to go back. She wasn’t ready for death to take her away, not yet. There were still things she wanted to do.

But she was tired, so very, very tired. Just the will to keep alive was exhausting; the struggle of keeping herself safe was a heavy weight on her shoulders. What she wanted right now, was to sleep her pain away. Keep herself from experiencing the reality of her actions and abandon the world that held no kindness for her.

Loss was a word familiar to her. Yet before now, it had held no meaning. The definition sat there as mere words on paper. Loss wasn’t someone one could read, it was only something one could feel and even at this moment, she could feel it. It wasn’t a sharp, burning pain. No, it was cold, and numb, leaving an ache in her that refused to subside.

What had she lost? Everything.

If she were not so comfortable in the darkness that sheltered her from the cruel reality that was somewhere so far away, she would have cried. Fleur, however, was tired of crying. She didn’t see it as a mark of weakness, but all it did was make her even more tired. It didn’t change her situation. It didn’t restore her sense of self. It was a temporary relief, but still one that didn’t soften the ache she felt once reality dawned on her again.

“ _It’s cold out there_ ,” Fleur said to herself, as if anyone was around to hear her. “ _And it is too painful. I am not sure I am ready to go back_.”

“ _But you will have to go back eventually. Unless you intend to remain asleep for the rest of your life_.”

There was that voice again, and Fleur opened her eyes, though not sure what she should be expecting. Still floating on her back, she stared up at the darkness before her. Only, it wasn’t so dark this time. Tiny pinpricks of light decorated the darkness above, an imitation of the night sky. She smiled at the image, admiring its beauty.

“ _What will I do_?” she asked, uncertain.

“ _What do you want to do_?” the voice asked, everywhere but nowhere all at once. “ _You cannot stay here forever. At some point, you will have to wake up_.”

“ _Maybe I do not want to_ ,” Fleur challenged, but she didn’t mean it.

The voice, if anything, sounded amused. “ _Now we both know that is a lie_. _I know you, Fleur, and I certainly know that you are simply afraid of what you might find_.”

“ _So_?” Fleur narrowed her eyes, suddenly annoyed

“ _Fear is nothing to be ashamed of, little one. I’ve seen it before, countless of times. But, it is time to go back and face the reality you left. You have created this little world as an escape, and so far it has protected you, but you must let it go_ ,” the voice practically sighed. “ _I did not think of you as someone so easily defeated_.”

“ _I am not defeated_!” Fleur snapped in anger. But it soon fizzled out, leaving nothing but that terrible ache in her chest. She swallowed hard. “ _I just…do not know where to go from ‘ere_.”

The voice, Fleur thought, sounded incredibly old. Ancient, almost, but wise beyond her own years. “ _I knew someone who thought the same way_ ,” the voice mused. “ _Only she wanted to die. It took some convincing on her part to live._ ”

“ _Did she_?”

The voice, though formless, smiled. “ _She did, and she went on to live a very full and happy life. I have seen this scenario countless of times before, and the endings are always the same. They either live or die. It is always a choice they must make. Life is full of choices, and so I must tell you that it is time to make another one. Stay here, or go back? Which one will it be, Fleur_?”

Torn, Fleur closed her eyes. She didn’t want to go back; why would she? Nothing but pain, uncertainty, and Barty were there waiting for her. Yet it she stayed here, there was no life. Floating in the river of oblivion, she had almost forgotten. If she remained here, that was admitting defeat, and a Delacour would only admit defeat if there were no other options left.

“ _You created this world as an escape_ ,” the voice reminded her. “ _If you want to live so badly, then you must leave it_.”

She was still so tired, though. So tired of fighting and keeping her head held high. What could she do now with the things she had done? What would people think of her?

Fleur, didn’t know.

But even so, she thought with restless determination, she could not stay.

“ _I think I am ready to go_ ,” Fleur said, though she wasn’t sure if she was speaking to herself or to the voice. “ _But I do not know the way ou-_ ”

Before she had a chance to even finish that thought, Fleur’s eyes opened with a start. There was no darkness, only the light of lamps hanging from beige colored walls. Instead of a river, she was lying on something soft. She felt the material with her fingers and knew at once that it was a blanket. A bed, she realized, she was lying on a bed. But whose bed…

“You’re awake.”

Though still quite groggy from sleep, Fleur instantly recognized the voice. From the closed doorway, Barty stared at her, and she did not tear her eyes away. Silence fell between them, tense, but she could not find any words to say to him. What would she say to him, after all she had done to try and escape from him?

He moved slowly, and she watched him as one might watch a predator. Wary, but unwilling to make unnecessary movements. Barty sat on the edge of the bed, hands folded in his lap. What he was thinking, she did not know, and that, she thought worriedly, was what disturbed her the most. She had attempted to flee from him. Did that mean he was going to kill her now?

“’Ow long?” she asked, her voice raspy from disuse.

“Over two weeks,” Barty answered back calmly, not a hint of any other emotion in his voice. “It’s half past midnight now; August 31st. We were all wondering when you were going to wake up.”

She paled. She’d been asleep for that long? She glanced around, noticing that this was not the tent they’d been sleeping in. Upon seeing her confusion, Barty offered a small smile. “We’re in the inn that we stayed in before entering the forest. Yelena healed you while you were asleep.”

Turning her head slowly, Fleur caught her reflection in the mirror, and nearly recoiled at the sight. Her skin was pale, sallow and nearly as ashen as her hair. She felt for the normally silk-like locks, only to find them brittle and dull. Even her eyes weren’t as blue as before; they’d changed to a dull gray. She looked like she’d been touched by death, and in a way, she had. She half expected herself to break down and cry at the loss of her own health, but there was something in the way.

She didn’t feel…anything.

A cold numbness that was so eerily familiar, it spread down her chest. It wormed its way down her body, and when she raised her hand to her face, she let out a ragged gasp from the sheer iciness of her touch. That immediately caught Barty’s attention. He scooted closer towards her, taking her much too thin hand into his.

Yet, she still couldn’t feel a damn thing.

There were a million things she should have been feeling. Pain, and tiredness. They were there; she could still sense them, but they were being blocked by the numbness. She didn’t have to be a genius to understand why. No matter who he had been, Fleur had killed a man. She had spread his blood down across the stones.

When she looked down at her own hands, one covered by Barty’s, all she could see was red. Blood that was not hers. No matter how fast she blinked, the color would not go away.

“We leave in the morning,” Barty said suddenly. “Now that you are awake, we cannot stay here any longer.”

So it was over then. Barty must have noticed her staring, for the grin on his face softened. He released her hand, bringing his own to cup her face and he kissed her cold lips. “You did it, darling,” he whispered, hovering just above her mouth. “You have secured the giants for the Dark Lord’s army. I am so very proud of you.”

The paralyzing numbness was enough to make her feel sick at the very thought of what her actions had done. It lingered in her throat, as if she were to choke on a sob, but it did not come. She simply had no more room in her heart to care at the moment. There was nothing in her except for bitter, cold emptiness. She’d lost everything and gained nothing.

And yet he was proud of her? For killing another human being? Macnair had been filth, and if Barty were anyone else, he should have been repulsed by her. But no, he was proud of her. In his horrid gaze, he knew that she had done it not only to save herself, but him as well.

“Oh darling, I am not angry with you. Not really,” Barty kissed her cheek, wrapping his arms around her. She stared at him, searching his face for the lie, but it was not there. He only looked at her as he did on the night she…she…killed Macnair. Adoration. Love. Pride, even, but not anger. Perhaps a little desperation, but that was always there when he spoke tenderly to her.

She was cold, so very cold. Tired, and weary of bearing the weight of her struggles all on her own. She couldn’t survive like this. So she did the one thing she had sworn she would never do without an ulterior motive: she embraced him.

The darkness that lingered over her howled in triumph.

Barty held her with the same amount of tightness that she did. There were no tears in her eyes as she did this, for she had no more to spare. He whispered against her hair, stroking it tenderly as he would do back at the prison he kept her in. She pressed her face into the crook of his neck, the dark scent of him temporarily distracting her. The bitter sweetness she always associated washed over, but now it was welcomed.

He jerked when he felt her mouth at his neck, right where his Azkaban tattoo was, and he slightly pulled back. “You should probably eat something,” he said, and nodded to himself. “You must be hungry.”

No, she didn’t feel anything. Not even hunger, which she figured she probably should. But when he moved to pull away, she grabbed his wrist and managed to push him back down on the bed. Without even stopping to think, she rolled on top of him. She slowly untied the robe around her, letting it fall behind her. She was dressed in a nightie that stopped above her knees, but she bunched it up and tossed it aside.

Barty watched her with astonishment written all over his face. Fleur’s mouth in a thin line as she jerked his pants open and reached to wrap her hand around his cock. She pulled, hard, and he gasped in surprise beneath her. She paid him no mind. She didn’t even feel at all connected with the world around her. She floated among it, and only the beating of her heart reminded her that she was still alive.

His hands reached up to her hips, but whether it was to settle there or move her off, she didn’t know. In a swift motion she grabbed them and forced them down. “No,” she snarled, her face a few inches from his.

Whatever he was about to say was lost when she tugged at him hard, his already half hard cock swelling even more as blood rushed down there. Without a second thought, bracing her hands on his shoulders, she lowered herself down on him.

The initial sensation was not pleasant, but the discomfort alone was enough that it distracted the numbness in her chest. She started to ride him, with her mind as a completely blank canvas. All she could focus on, was the feeling of something other than bitingly cold nothingness. Barty stared up at her, but as if in warning, her hands tightened so hard on his shoulders her nails dug in, leaving tiny crescent marks.

The friction against the walls of her vagina was a stark reminder of the last time this had happened. It hurt, and a few times the tip of him hit against her cervix, but she craved that feeling. Normally she did not want to feel pain, but at this moment, it was a reminder that she was still there. That she was still human and not a monster.

Whether it was subconscious or not, he moved his hips upwards, penetrating her even deeper. She leaned forward, her face only an inch from his as she rode him slower, grinding her hips downwards. Her flat stomach brushing against the firmness of his abdomen. He gasped when she gave a particularly hard thrust downwards, her wince mixing with his shock.

Her skin felt on fire, she thought as she rolled her hips downwards, enveloping more of him than she had previously. He was all the way inside her, and for the first time, she didn’t hate it. She needed more of him; needed to claw her way into him so she could just feel anything other than cold. Just to feel the spark that reassured her she was alive. The hate she had for him was overwhelming, mixing with something that suddenly brought tears to her eyes.

Fleur leaned down, and the tears slipped down her face when his hand cupped her chin. His thumb wiped them away, his gasps had become shriller, and she knew that he was close. Her head lowered, her hair dangling over them like a curtain. To obstruct the view of any outsider as she whispered against his lips.

“You did this,” her voice trembled with the effort, more tears slipping down her face. She didn’t stop him from gripping her legs now, his thrusts meeting upwards with hers lowering down. “You did this to me, and I won’t forgive you. You _ruined_ me!”

She was riding faster now, the overwhelming heat rising to her stomach in waves. Her thighs quivered with the effort, her cunt spasming around him when he brushed up against her clit. She ground her teeth together. She hated him with every fiber of her being. She would never stop hating him and what he had turned her into.

But she needed him. She didn’t want to need him, but she did. If she was going to survive, she was going to need him. She fell into his dark embrace, aware of the impossibly bleak and dangerous road ahead. Her forehead against his, they almost fit together like a puzzle. A jagged, rough puzzle, but one that fit together in a certain morbid way. She needed him, as one needed oxygen to breathe.

In his eyes, the desire for her burned. She knew he felt the same way, only instead of hate, there was love. Twisted, unwanted by her, but there nonetheless and she grasped for it. The warmth in her was about to explode, and she broke the skin on his shoulders. Red seeped into her nails as she let out a cry of pleasure and abhorrence.

“Bastard!” she cried, rolling her hips so hard they were beginning to ache dully. Her tears rolled onto his face. “’Orrible excuse of a ‘uman being! I despise everything about you!”

And despite this, she pressed her lips against him. He came with a start, into her as her own orgasm rolled in. She twitched around him, her walls milking in every last drop that came from his cock’s dripping head. Her kissed her back just as hard, one hand reaching to fist in her hair as he thrust hard up into her.

“I love you,” he pulled back, panting into her cheek as she rode out her orgasm. “I love you so much, darling.”

She stilled above him, and he rolled his hips into hers languidly. The abhorrence in her swelled before dissipating when she saw the look in his eyes. He had won another battle, and he knew it. He reveled in the fact that she needed him. She pressed her nails down even harder against his skin. Their little war might soon be over, but it was not just yet

His eyes burned black when hissed against his ear. “But I will never stop ‘ating you,” his skin felt like fire beneath her.

She needed him, and as long as she stayed in this hell, she would need him to stay alive. Her hate for him was an unceasing flame, though slightly dulled now with her sense of self-preservation. Trying to run had almost gotten her killed, and almost into a fate worse than that. She would not run anymore; there was no escape from this hell in sight. Yet she would not ever relent and become a docile little wife for him. She would adapt to survive, but in her hardest of hearts, she would be free.

His grin was almost primal against her cheek. “And I will never let you go.”

She lay there on top of him, chest heaving against his as the room grew quiet around them. She was all too aware of his remaining semen trickling down her thighs. With her tired eyes, she looked downwards. His release was not the only thing there. Running a slow thin line as if in competition, her blood dribbled down.

Yet Fleur didn’t care. The numbness, for now, had retreated. She was warm, wrapped in his embrace. Safe, even, no matter how temporary that might be, and no matter how much she wanted him to have never come into her life. But she didn’t want him to die; not now. Not when her life very much depended on his.

Narcissa had been right all along. She had needed Barty since the beginning, and Fleur’s pride had done nothing but prevent her from seeing it.

~

“I tell him no rough activities, but does he listen? No! Argh, men…”

From her spot on the old Victorian armchair, Fleur nursed a bowl of thick porridge in her arms and watched as Yelena removed the sheets off the bed. She didn’t have the heart to tell the woman it had been she who initiated the sex, but she took secret delight of the image of Yelena throttling Barty in her head. Mashka, who stood leaning on the bedframe, rolled her eyes and gave Fleur a bright smile.

“I am glad you is awake,” the girl said, beaming from ear to ear. “Vill you play with me after you eat?”

Fleur noticed the tightening of Yelena’s old hands, but the witch simply pressed her lips together tightly and said nothing. Fleur played with the spoon, watching the oats slip of the utensil and back into the bowl. It was her third helping of porridge, and Fleur did not feel an ounce of shame in that. It was the first thing she’d eaten in almost three weeks, and she was starving. After the early morning encounter with Barty, it only made her realize just how hungry she’d been.

Upon seeing her awake and sitting up, Mashka had thrown her arms around her and began gibbering away in incomprehensible Russian. It had woken Barty up, who then proceeded to complain about rude annoying children, and he quickly exited the room to go find Yelena. Yet Fleur thought that perhaps he didn’t sound so much annoyed as disgruntled.

Still, she was not one to quell a child’s excitement. Now, the young girl stared at her hopefully, and Fleur sighed. “I am afraid we are leaving this morning,”

At the sight of Mashka’s face morphing into one of disappointment, Fleur pressed her lips together. She hadn’t meant to get attached, but the small girl reminded her so much of Gabrielle. From the way she laughed, to how her own pale blue eyes would sparkle when she smiled up at Fleur. Perhaps she was merely projecting her homesickness onto the child, and if that was the case, it wasn’t fair towards Mashka.

But then, Fleur knew all about unfairness.

“They have to go home, Mashka,” Yelena said sternly, breaking he silence. Yet even she looked rather dismal. “You know this, and you go back to school tomorrow.”

“I know,” Mashka sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes when she was sure her mother wasn’t looking.

“Now, go pack,” Yelena instructed, making a shooing motion with her hands. “We leave for St. Petersburg tomorrow in morning.”

Now, Fleur had no idea where the Russian school for witches and wizards was, but from the way Mashka’s face lit up at the mention of the city, she assumed that the girl held a certain amount of admiration for the city. The girl scampered to the door, but before she left, she turned to Fleur with a wide grin. “Do you vant to see my room?” she asked, excited, and looked to her mother. “Please, Mama? Can I show her?”

Yelena paused, and glanced briefly to Fleur. “Can you valk now?” she asked gently, and when Fleur nodded, the woman sighed. “Fine, but do not be too long. Her husband is vanting to leave soon.”

Bowl of porridge still in hand, Fleur slowly rose from the chair. Everything still hurt, though not as much as it did the night Macnair…she shook her head, refusing to bring the image to mind. She was still quite weary, and she expected it would take a few more weeks to feel like herself again. She still looked like a walking corpse, and not even the silver glow around her body was there. Perhaps it would never come back.

The thought of that nearly brought tears to her eyes, but she quickly blinked them back when she felt Mashka’s hand take hers. The girl tilted her head curiously, as though she wanted to ask what was wrong, but Fleur smiled. “Do you need ‘elp packing?” she asked, and the idea of helping the girl brought up bittersweet memories of assisting her own little sister with her trunk as they prepared for Beauxbaton’s.

“ _Da_ ,” Mashka responded quickly, and then flushed. “I mean, yes. But it is just few things.”

They walked down the hall, where there was one solitary door at the end without a number. Mashka reached forward, her fist lightly tapping against the wood in a quick pattern, where it opened immediately. Fleur allowed Mashka to pull her into a largely lit room, full of old looking furniture and a magic radio tucked near the window. On the other end of the table, near the small adjoining kitchenette, hung a huge wall carpet.

It must have taken a long time to make, Fleur thought impressively. The dominant red color, with intricate patterns weaved in blues, golds, and greens. Mashka, noticing her stare, stopped and looked. “That came from mama’s family, and mama’s family is very old,” she said, almost quietly. “I have never met them, and mama says nothing about them. Makes her sad.”

Probably pureblood, by the sound of it, Fleur suspected quietly. Yet from the uneasy way Mashka shifted, Fleur could only suspect that something tragic had happened. “So where is your room?” she asked quickly, in an attempt to lighten the mood.

As if suddenly remembering why they were there, Mashka straightened up. “Oh!” she exclaimed and pulled once again on her hand. “It is this vay!”

She followed Mashka through a worn painted door and was led into a rather small bedroom. Yet despite it’s unimpressive size, it was adorned in quidditch posters, photographs, and other various knick-knacks. There was a rather large photograph of Viktor Krum on the wall next to Mashka’s bed, and Fleur grinned at the sight of her former fellow champion.

“You like quidditch?” Fleur asked, indicating towards Viktor’s photo.

“Yes,” Mashka nodded. “Papa and I love quidditch; he used to play vhen he vas in school. Mama doesn’t care for it, but we saved enough money to go to World Cup last year. Viktor is my favorite player!”

Fleur hid the knowing smile behind her hand when Mashka’s face turned bright pink at the mention of the Bulgarian. She looked around the rest of the room, to the polished brown trunk on the bed stuffed full of clothes, books, and other school equipment. Tucked away carefully between a pair of bright red robes and pair of socks, was a photograph. Upon further inspection, she realized it was a photo of Mashka and her parents. All three were smiling, holding the small girl close to them. It must have been taken a long time ago, and clearly, it meant a very great deal to Mashka. As firm and no-nonsense as her parents appeared, it was obvious they loved their daughter very much.

“What year are you?” Fleur asked, when Mashka handed her a shirt. She began to fold it as Mashka prattled away.

“I am staring my fourth year!” Mashka declared proudly. “All students start school at seven years old. I turn eleven in April, and that is very important day.”

“And why is that?”

“It is vhen school no longer keeps our vands,” Mashka beamed. “And then I can take it home for school breaks.”

“That is very important,” Fleur agreed, and slowly sat down on the bed. Mashka observed her carefully, concerned at the sudden paleness of Fleur’s face. Even standing for too long was exhausting, Fleur thought with a sigh, and then gave Mashka a soft smile. “It is alright, I am fine. Just a bit tired.”

“But you have been asleep for veeks,” Mashka frowned. “How can you be tired?”

“I just am,” Fleur answered easily. “But I will be okay. ‘Ow about you ‘and me something to put in your trunk?”

They worked in comfortable silence, with Mashka handing her various things and Fleur neatly arranging them into the trunk. It took, perhaps, less than ten minutes before the girl latched the trunk shut and gave a smile to admire her handywork. It was then she noticed on the small table next to Mashka’s bed, a small finely painted box. The bright colors of the box illustrated dancers, wearing traditional Russian clothes. She guessed it was either a jewelry box of some sorts, for Mashka noticed her stare and went over to pick it up.

“I got it last year for my birthday,” the girl exclaimed proudly. “It belonged to mama vhen she vas little. It plays music, see?”

She wound it up, opening it to reveal soft playing music. Inside were various things of bracelets, and a few antique broaches. It immediately reminded Fleur of the music box she had in her room back in France, and the thought of that sent fresh tears to spring into her eyes. Mashka instantly shut the lid, looking at Fleur with horrified blue eyes.

“I am sorry!” Mashka exclaimed, taking Fleur’s hand. “I don’t mean to make you cry!”

“It is nothing,” Fleur lied, but it wasn’t nothing. Was she so tired that the thought of her room back home was enough to stir such emotion in her? She quickly wiped her eyes with the back of her free hand. “I am sorry. I do not know what came over me.”

Mashka didn’t look convinced, and her hold on Fleur’s hand didn’t lessen. “Don’t be sad,” she whispered, patting her hand as if Fleur were the child here. “Don’t cry, it’s okay. Everything is okay.”

Was it though? No, Fleur decided, but she wasn’t about to unload her burdens onto a child. She wouldn’t worry Mashka with her problems, nor would she do it Ilya or Yelena. She wouldn’t endanger them by revealing who Barty was. She had seen what he was capable of doing and the last thing she needed was more deaths on her conscious.

“Let us go find your husband,” Mashka pulled on her hand. “Maybe you seeing him vill make you feel better!”

Fleur doubted it, but she didn’t have the heart to dampen the girl’s good intentions.

They found Barty easily enough; the inn was not an immense labyrinth or anything, but Fleur found it increasingly odd how easily Mashka spoke to him. When she had first met the girl, she had avoided even speaking to Barty. Yet she supposed that after almost three weeks, one couldn’t be too picky about who they were going to talk to. Especially in a country where English wasn’t the dominant language.

Currently, Barty was having a sort of stare off with Yelena, whose cold gray gaze was unyielding to his dark one. Mashka, of course, was completely oblivious to the tense atmosphere around them. “Here we are!” she practically skipped into the inn’s dining area, announcing their newly arrived presence as if this were a ball.

Barty’s unreadable expression shifted from the Russian woman to her. Immediately, Fleur refused to meet his gaze, heart still hammering with the thoughts from earlier that morning. Instinctively, she squeezed Mashka’s hand in reassurance. The child looked up to her in confusion but said nothing with Fleur deposited her at her mother’s side. Yelena, without a word, put herself in front of her young daughter. Never once did her sharp gaze leave Barty.

“We shall be going now, as you wish,” Barty said casually, and his arm snaked out holding a quite a few galleons and added rather smugly, “For your trouble.”

“I vill not take your money,” Yelena said coolly. “It vas no trouble looking after your vife.”

Fleur noticed Ilya had stepped into room, arms crossed and observing the scene with absolute silence. If Barty noticed him, he did not acknowledge the man’s presence. “I insist,” he gestured to the money. “It would be improper for a guest to not pay their share. Would you not agree?”

Yelena’s scowl was truly ugly, but after glancing towards her husband, it deepened when he nodded. “Fine,” she snatched the galleons from him, pocketing them into her apron. She then added not so politely, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Barty said with a slight sneer.

He gave a quick, polite bow and took Fleur’s hand into his. At once, Mashka dashed out from behind her mother and wrapped her arms around her. Fleur let go of his hand as he stopped to look at the scene, and she knelt down to meet Mashka’s eyes. Mashka’s large blue eyes were wide, and even though Fleur barely knew the child, she still felt a pang of sadness.

“Vill I ever see you again?” Mashka asked quietly, with an edge of hope.

“I do not know,” Fleur answered back softly, but still honest with her. “But even if we do not, I will always remember you.”

“You vill?”

“Of course,” Fleur smiled, and pulled back to put her hands on the child’s shoulders. She feigned a firmness that she’d heard Yelena use before. “Now, make sure you do well in school. Learn all sorts of new spells, okay? And always mind your parents, can you do that?”

She hoped Mashka could see the earnest look in her eyes. “ _Always treasure what you have. Don’t take it for granted. You never know when you might lose it_.”

“I vill,” Mashka nodded, and quickly wiped her suddenly wet eyes. “I vill, I promise.”

Fleur squeezed her shoulders once again, and then released her. She stood, and when she saw Yelena, she noticed the woman’s eyes glittered with unshed tears. Almost as if she wanted to say something but couldn’t. Fleur bowed slightly towards the small family. “Thank you for all you ‘ave done,” she said lowly. “I ‘ope I ‘ave not been too much of an inconvenience.”

“Of course not,” Ilya walked over, placing a firm hand on Fleur’s shoulder. “It vas no trouble at all. My family is always happy to help whoever needs it.”

“If you ever need anything,” Yelena said abruptly, and everyone’s attention was suddenly on her. She blinked slowly and stared directly into Fleur’s eyes. “Anything at all, you is always velcomed here.”

Fleur noticed Ilya’s slight frown, but the message had been well received. Yelena knew, though how much she was aware of, Fleur didn’t know. That being said, what was said echoed around in Fleur’s head. If she ever made it out of this, and needed some place to lay low, she could come here. Immediately, her chest bloomed with warmth. They barely knew each other, but all the same, the fact that even cared enough to offer her a place to run to was enough.

Except there would be no running for now. No doubt Barty would be keeping an even tighter hold on her, and after what had happened last time…well, Fleur didn’t want to think about that. She didn’t want to think about the red staining her hands, or the darkness that hovered around in her magic. Splinters of him cut through her skin and had already burrowed itself inside her. As much as she wanted to run to Yelena, she wouldn’t risk more blood on her.

And Barty, the damn bastard, was all too aware of this.

He put his arm in hers, in a motion to lead her towards the door. She glanced back towards the family of three, where Mashka gave her a little small wave goodbye. She returned the gesture, and then forced herself to return her gaze to the door.

The walk out of the town was quiet. Unnaturally quiet, she thought as they passed the many shops advertising their wares. It wasn’t until they were at the edge of town that he spoke, his grip on her arm tightening ever so slightly. “We’re going to disapparate to the portkey,” he said quickly. “So hold on tight.”

Fleur frowned and braced herself for the action. With a motion of his wand, they were suddenly pulled into darkness. She gripped Barty tightly, and she lamented the feeling of being pulled into different directions on all side. If she had her wand, she would have been able to do it herself, but it certainly wasn’t her favorite way to travel. Efficient, but a bit strange since she’d only had her license to do it for a few months. She was certainly out of practice, yet evidently, Barty wasn’t.

Then the world became clear once more, and Fleur stumbled against Barty once the spinning stopped. It was the same clearing they had been to weeks ago, when they had arrived in the country. The thought suddenly occurred to her, and she fixed Barty curiously. “What ‘appened to Macnair’s body?” she asked carefully.

Barty eyed her. “You sure you want to know?” he sighed when she nodded and brought his hand to his chin thoughtfully. “Well, the giants heard our little spat and came down to see what was going on. You were passed out by this point, and they were impressed at the sight of his body. Due to your little performance from earlier, they decided to side with the Dark Lord. They took his body, after that. They tried to take his wand, but it snapped in half when they tried to pick it up.”

She gaped at him in bewilderment. “You just let them take ‘is body?”

“Well I was a little bit preoccupied,” Barty raised his eyes. “I thought you were dying, and I most certainly wasn’t going to stick around there much longer.”

She wasn’t dead, that was for certain. Yet he still looked uneasy. Something was on his mind; and it wasn’t about Macnair’s body. “Are you worried about the Dark Lord?” she asked carefully. That seemed to earn a reaction out of him. He glanced to her quickly, almost as if he were wondering if she was reading his mind.

“The Dark Lord wants to meet with us as soon as we get back into Britain.”

A sudden hush fell between them. Fleur froze at the very sound of the name, but her heart thundered loudly against her ribcage at what he wanted. “Both of us?” she asked quietly, all remaining color drained from her face. “What for?”

“To hear more about the mission,” Barty said, and nodded to himself. “He wants a private audience with us. I will not refuse him, but I am unsure of what his mood is. His letter back to me was not terribly informative with how he truly feels. But we will see him tomorrow without fail.”

He was nervous, and that did not sit well with Fleur. If the Dark Lord was angry with her for killing Macnair, what was going to prevent him from killing her? Or worse, she thought dismally. Her stomach churned at the very idea of seeing the Dark Lord in person. How many outsiders had done that and lived to tell the tale?

“Still,” Barty continued, snapping Fleur out of her thoughts. He faced her with an expression of determination she’d never seen him wear before. He was afraid for her, and despite her hatred of him, she couldn’t help but feel both angry and touched at his concern. “I don’t know what his reaction will be. He is a skilled Legilimens; one of the best. There’s a chance he will read your mind, so I think it’s best I teach you how to do Occlumency.”

“Teach me Occlumency?” Fleur echoed, staring at him intently. “By tomorrow?”

“You might as well start learning it,” Barty said firmly. “The others who know Legilimency might try to read your mind for their own gains. For information on me. I will not allow that.”

And neither would she, Fleur agreed privately, though her nails dug against her skin as a reminder to keep herself in check.

“When will we start?” she asked, sounding calmer than she felt.

“When we get home,” Barty said, and then added, “The sooner the better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got a bit long, but I promise we will be seeing Voldemort in the next chapter! I have that chapter still in editing, so it might be a little longer before we see it. I'd say maybe in a week or so, but that could change. 
> 
> Fleur is, well, confused right now. She hates Barty; that won't be changing for a long time, but she saved his life, and he saved hers, so there's been a shift in their relationship that now she has to navigate through this new dynamic. Be assured, she's not going to let him off scott free for this. I have a scene written out in the next chapter that is going to be, well, a little intense. 
> 
> Also, we will be getting more of Barty's p.o.v! I think I saw a lot of people wanting more of it, so rest assured, we will be getting it! A lot of this is going to be in Fleur's p.o.v, but it's important to me as well that we see the other characters. I don't normally like splitting two characters p.o.vs in chapters, but when we get to some, I will definitely tell you before the chapter begins. 
> 
> Thank you to Brooklynhills for the Occlumency lessons idea! I have decided that we will be seeing it in future chapters. For Fleur, I can imagine it taking some time, but perhaps not as long as it did Harry considering all she's been going through. 
> 
> Again, thanks for reading! As usual, if you would like to comment, go ahead; I love to hear what you guys have to say. See you all next time, bye!


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a day early, so I hope you guys enjoy! 
> 
> I did originally write the first half of this with Barty actually teaching her the lessons, but it just wasn't working. He did teach her, but I think the process of it wasn't nearly as interesting/exciting as what Voldemort will do. Please don't be too upset about that; her lessons are far from over! There's a lot of things that Barty is going to have to teach before the Azkaban gang gets out. Yes, that's what I'm calling them now. Yeesh, they sound like the Heathers.
> 
> The next chapter should be out soon since it's a bit shorter than this one, but none the less important because boi, do I have some bombs to drop. As always, thanks again for reading and all the support so far! You guys are the real miracles here! I didn't think we'd get this far with this story, but here we are!
> 
> Very quickly, I do hope that you all are staying safe out there. Let's treat each other with respect and kindness. I am deeply heartbroken by what I am seeing out there. I worry for of my younger cousin, who is a person of color, and is very devastated by what is going on. I am also worried for many of my friends who live in the cities that have been looted. I know some people hate little PSA's here, but all I ask is that you guys take care of yourselves and each other. I stand with the black community 100%. 
> 
> TW: There is some violence here and self-inflicted harm, so if you are sensitive to that, please keep this in mind.

Fleur had never seen a more elaborate manor like the Malfoy’s in her entire life.

It was certainly bigger than the Delacour’s, and if it were not for the spells and enchantments protecting and concealing the home, it would certainly be an eyesore for the non-magique. She couldn’t recall ever seeing an albino peacock before and jumped when it screeched at her. She had to grasp Barty’s arm tightly while he let out a snicker.

“It’s just a bird, dear,” he said to her, while she glared hastily at the peacock now strutting away. Even when she turned her glare to him, he didn’t seem bothered. “No need to get your feathers ruffled.”

They fell into silence as they walked up the driveway path, an in the distance, she heard the babbling of a fountain and the gentle chirping of other birds. If it were any other situation but today, she wouldn’t have felt so nervous. However, Fleur felt her stomach tighten at the thought of what their objective was. Her eyes fell to the beautiful manor, and knew that somewhere inside, the Dark Lord was waiting. Without even thinking, she took Barty’s hand into hers. When he squeezed back, it was a small way of grounding herself to reality; to prevent her from going into a panic. It did, in a way, make her feel better knowing that he was just as apprehensive.

The front doors, delicately carved centuries ago, swung open upon their arrival. They stepped through, and Fleur found many pairs of eyes staring down at her. Many faces of pale, haughty eyed people stared down disdainfully to her. As she and Barty stood in the center of the hallway, she wondered if the portraits of the people unnerved him too. She instantly recognized a large portrait of Narcissa, younger, but just as proud as she was today. She was sitting stiffly in a chair, with a woman’s hand on the back of it.

It took Fleur a moment to realize that the woman behind Narcissa was one of the most terrifying Death Eaters of all time: Bellatrix Lestrange. Compared to Narcissa’s fair sleek hair, Bellatrix’s thick black curls danced around her shoulders and to her midback. Yet her dark liquid black eyes held the same pride as her sister. The resemblance of the two sisters was there, and Fleur felt a strange prick of fear run down her spine. This was not a woman she ever wanted to cross paths with. Not if she were alone, anyway.

“We mustn’t linger, darling,” Barty pulled gently on her arm, those his gaze landed on what she was looking at. He paused and ceased in trying to hurry her along. Except, when Fleur glanced to him, she noticed he wasn’t looking at the portrait in fear, but rather in awe. He inclined his head towards the dark-haired woman. “My third cousin, Bellatrix Lestrange. Though I am sure you have figured out by now that she is Narcissa’s sister.”

Every witch and wizard in France knew of the Black family, and even more so the Lestrange’s. Old, and unlike the British, the French cared little for these old families. Especially after the war with Grindelwald, where much of their power had been lost, and some of these old branches reunited with their ones in England to escape trial. She remembered her grand-papa mention that the Rosier family completely fled to England. That Vinda Rosier’s teenage daughter fled Paris when the wizard allied forces began taking out more of Grindelwald’s acolytes.

She vaguely wondered if the two women in the portrait were related the once infamous witch. Those thoughts did not last long, though, when the sound of someone clearing their throat caught her attention.

Narcissa, attired in sleek black velvet, waited for them with her thin lips pressed together in a small line. Her slender hands were folded in front of her, as the mark of any good hostess, yet there was no warmth in her cold eyes. She looked from Fleur to Barty, and then sighed softly. “Follow me,” she said quietly, and in a quick motion, walked down the hall.

Fleur released Barty’s hand but followed closely behind him without a word. The dimly lit halls were as chilling as their matron’s gaze. How had Draco grown up here in a house that lacked any compassion? Several times she was all too aware of the eyes of the portraits following her, sneering down disapprovingly as she passed. She swallowed back her pride and focused decidedly on the back of Barty’s head. It helped somewhat, but the whispers of the portraits rattled against her ears.

Finally, Narcissa stopped, her hands lingering on the doors of the drawing room. “He is waiting for you inside,” she said stiffly, refusing to meet either of their faces. “We must not keep him waiting, for he is most eager to see you.”

At this, her blue eyes suddenly landed on Fleur’s. They burned with something fierce, as though she were trying to display a message without having to speak it. Whether Barty noticed or not, he quickly thanked Narcissa an pushed the doors open. When he was inside, Fleur made move to follow him when she felt a cold hand grab her upper arm.

“Do not try and lie to him,” Narcissa hissed in her ear, her warm breath causing the hairs on Fleur’s arm to rise. The warning was there, evident in the urgent way she spoke. “Don’t even think of doing it; he will know. Be honest, be polite, and above all, do not act as though you are equal to him. Do not speak unless you are spoken to. If you want to stay alive, you will absolutely not question him.”

Fleur swallowed hard and gave a brief nod as a show that she heard the older witch. Narcissa gave her a slight nudge forward, seeing as her legs seemed to have forgotten how to move. Fleur’s hands tightened, and she moved further into the drawing room, where Barty stood waiting for him with a look of something that appeared almost impatient.

She was momentarily distracted by the sheer expense of this room. The walls were high, and when Fleur inclined her head upwards, she was taken aback by the two beautiful crystal chandeliers. Near the pipe organ was a large portrait of the Malfoy family. She instantly recognized the resemblance between Narcissa and Draco, but the other man in the portrait she’d never seen before. She figured it was the current head of the family, Lucius Malfoy but before she could focus more on the painting, her attention was drawn to the end of the room. An ornate mantlepiece, roaring with emerald green fire that cast dancing shadows on the purple wallpaper.

The mirror above it was framed intricately by a scroll frame, but it was the figure that sat in front of the fireplace that froze her to the core. She stood next to Barty, unable to tear her wide eyes from the man sitting in the antique black balloon chair. If it were not for Barty’s cold fingers pressing against the top of her wrist, she was sure she would have fainted.

Fleur found it almost hard to believe that she was facing the man she had only read, and heard about, in books and gossip. Yet here she stood, staring face to face with those cold inhuman red eyes. She didn’t even notice the snake until it came curling down its master’s chair, tongue flicking out as its yellow eyes glowed luminous from the flickering flames. She couldn’t tear her eyes away, no matter how hard she wanted to. Her heart beat so loudly she was sure that everyone in the room could hear it.

Barty sank to his knees, bowing his head lowly in a display of respect she had never seen him do before. “My lord,” he spoke without even looking towards his master. “We are honored to stand here before you to tell you that the mission was a success. The giants have decided to side with you.”

She caught his eye momentarily, and his head gestured in a motion she immediately understood. Though her pride flared angrily at the thought of having to kneel before this…whatever he was now, she did so without a word. The ground was uncomfortably hard against her knees, but she kept her head lowered just so she didn’t have to see those cold red eyes. But, she could still feel them boring into her.

“Have they now?” came a voice that Fleur decided couldn’t possibly be human. Shrill, high pitched that sent needles of fear down the length of her spine. Lord Voldemort let out a short laugh that didn’t sound natural coming from him. Fleur looked at him from the curtain of hair concealing her face and noticed that while he didn’t seem angry. In fact, he looked almost amused. “That is good to hear, Bartemius,” he said, and she thought it was odd that he used Barty’s full name. “Another successful mission from you.”

Barty lifted his head, his eyes still lowered. “It is my honor to serve you, my lord,” he said reverently. “I will always do as you ask.”

“You have further proven that to me,” Lord Voldemort leaned forward slightly. “You have done well, Bartemius. But I muss confess that I find myself somewhat disappointed by what has happened.”

“My lord?” Barty’s eyes widened slightly, and this time, he looked to his master in fear, an emotion that Fleur had never seen on his face before.

With a grand sweep of his robes, Lord Voldemort rose from his seat. The snake let out a soft hiss, still curling its long body around the chair and leering at them both hungrily. She saw Barty stiffen when the Dark Lord laid a papery-pale hand on his shoulder. “I sent you, the veela, and Macnair to secure our alliance with the giants,” he whispered softly. “And yet, only two of you returned. Yes, I read your letter, but I wonder if perhaps there is information you have left out?”

When those cold red eyes landed on her, Fleur immediately turned her gaze away. She forced her mind to clear, remembering only less than twenty-four hours ago that Barty attempted to teach her Occlumency. He sat her down in the parlor, sitting right across from her and proceeded to instruct her.

“ _The first thing you need to do is clear your mind_ ,” Barty had said, reminding her distantly of his time as her professor. “ _Imagine that you are a blank canvas. No memories, no emotion, just a clear and empty mind_.”

She blinked once, forcing any thoughts out of her mind. She tried thinking of what Barty had instructed her to. A blank canvas, just like the ones she had at home when she spent time watercolor painting. She was a creature of emotion, yes, but she found it strangely simple to simply shut everything off. Even if it meant concealing how she truly felt, it was better than the Dark Lord knowing about…about…

She noticed those red eyes narrow, and she concentrated harder. She couldn’t see it, but there was something pressing against her mind, prodding its way in. An image came to mind, one she recognized instantly. Macnair’s face, grinning lecherously at her while he crowded into her space that morning in the inn. Macnair touching her face, her hair, and…

Fleur’s mind jerked, forcing it to return to one of darkness. Her heart slammed against her chest, and any moment now, she was going to be sick. No, she knew what he was attempting to do, and she wasn’t going to allow it. She refused to break his gaze, and by the way he was narrowing his eyes at her, he knew that she wasn’t going to let him in. She couldn’t, but there he still was, overwhelming her mind with such force the world spun around her.

Lord Voldemort found his way in, and though she could not see him, she was all too aware of those glowing red eyes peering through her memories. She was three and playing with her cousins and grand-papa in the meadow. Her arrival at Beauxbaton’s when she was eight; Gabrielle’s birth when she was nine, it was all there for him to see. Dancing for the giants, Barty’s tears before her as she forced him to release her, she couldn’t catch up with that cold penetrating gaze.

“ _Non,_ ” she pressed back, trying to conceal each memory with the blank canvas Barty had instructed her to do. “ _I will not let you in! Get out!_ ”

“ _Now, now, little girl_ ,” she wanted to scream at the chilling voice in her head. She wanted to scratch at her ears till they bled just to get him out. “ _Step aside and let me see. You are strong, I must say, not many are able to fight me off for this long, but it is all futile, silly girl. Let me see_!”

“ _No_!” Fleur shouted, but whether it was in her head or out loud, she didn’t know. “ _Get out of my ‘ead_!”

“ _You will obey Lord Voldemort_!”

“ _I will not_!”

A memory flashed in front of her, but this time, she wasn’t able to throw up her shield in time. She was lying on a bed, tied up and screaming for her maman to come save her. But no one had come, and the deep ache that pulled at her heart was enough to spring fresh tears in her eyes. This was a memory she didn’t want anyone to see. Not even herself.

“ _Get out, please_!” she begged the Dark Lord. “ _Do not look anymore! Get out_!”

“ _There is no use resisting me; what good has that done you, little girl_?” his voice sneered at her, not even phased by what he was seeing. He looked at the memory in boredom, unbothered by display of one of his own raping a defenseless girl. “ _If you give in now, I might show you mercy. You have been brave, so foolishly brave, but it will get you nowhere. If you value your life, you will give into me_.”

She wanted to scream, but before she could even do that, something peaceful washed over. Like being wrapped in her maman’s arms, she thought that someone was embracing her from all corners of her mind. The red eyes vanished, and then, there was nothing but darkness. She did not see what, or who, forced the Dark Lord out, but somehow she knew who it was.

“ _He is gone now, little one. Do not worry, he will not get in so easily again_ ,” the voice echoed around in her skull, warm and soothing like balm over a wound. “ _He is gone now, but you mustn’t linger here much longer_.”

The thought occurred to Fleur as she stared out into the darkness. “ _Who are you_?” she asked in amazement.

Somehow, she just knew the voice was smiling. “ _I am no one_ ,” it said serenely. “ _But I am also someone_.”

Before she could ask what that even meant, a sharp jolt snapped it her back to the situation at hand. She opened her eyes, finding that she was staring up at the ceiling and realized that she must have fallen over at some point. Barty was leaning over her, cradling her head in his hands and his face was stark white.

“You must get up,” Barty whispered in her ear, helping her to her shaking feet. “We cannot keep him waiting, Fleur.”

Her body still shaking over the previous events, she was suddenly glad to have Barty there for support. She leaned against his stronger frame, clutching his arm in a bone-tight grip. He didn’t hold her, but the way his hand squeezed hers briefly was the reassurance she needed to know that he was relieved that she was alright. For now.

Lord Voldemort was looking at her now, more with interest than with anger. He strode towards them, wand twirling between his fingers as his face contorted into a humorless smile. That expression alone sent her stomach rolling nauseously.

“I must say that I am impressed,” Lord Voldemort began easily, not taking his eyes off the two of them. “Not many are able to hold against me. I wonder who it was that taught you the art of Occlumency.”

His gaze landed on Barty, whose face remained blank and passive as stone. She wondered if Lord Voldemort was going to question him, but he merely waved his hand. “But it is no matter, yes, there are more pressing matters to deal with,” those red eyes gleamed brightly. “We have some of our old allies returned to us, and it is thanks to you, dear girl.”

She stiffened slightly, but the took notice of it with a wry smile. “There is no need to be frightened. You have done me a great service, though I wonder,” he paused and looked to Barty. “Will you be able to restrain yourself from killing any more of us.”

“My lord, it was not my intention to kill Macnair,” Barty lowered his head, though his voice was strained with desperation. “He insulted my honor as Pureblood and attempted to take what was not his. We dueled, yes, but it was not my intention to have him dead.”

“I see,” Lord Voldemort stared at him, with no emotion betraying his true thoughts. “So he attempted to take what was yours. Yes, I see now what has happened, how unfortunate.”

It was alarming, she thought, how unswayed he was by her presence. His skill in Occlumency was great, even more so than Barty’s. Yet she still felt Barty stiffen by her side, and her heart picked up speed. He was afraid now, and she wondered…

“ _Crucio_!”

A loud shriek escaped Barty’s mouth, and he fell to the ground on his hands and knees. He screamed, body tensing as Fleur could imagine a thousand knives carved through his body. She backed away, the memory of her own experience of it springing forth in her mind. Her hands began to shake, the goosebumps along her skin rising as though it were her being the one tortured and not Barty.

“ _Crucio_!”

Barty screamed even louder, and Fleur found she could not look away at his twitching form. His gaze met hers, full of pain and fear, but unlike last time he did not look to her for help. He looked as if he was scared for her, as if the Dark Lord would stop torturing him and redirect it to her. As much as she hated him, he truly did love her and the fact he was there, taking the curse without a single complaint, well, she couldn’t deny it had its impact.

Fleur moved, stepping forward to meet the Dark Lord’s unfeeling gaze. “It was my fault!” she blurted out, and Barty’s screams suddenly stopped. She blinked quickly, and something wet slipped down her cheeks. “I killed Macnair! Barty did not make me! Macnair was going to kill ‘im, so I saved ‘im! Torture me instead!”

Barty lay there on the ground, chest heaving, and Fleur wiped the tears from her face. The blood roared in her ears, but it was done. She needed him alive; well and less unhinged than he already was. If she was going to live through this, she wouldn’t allow this to keep going. They could call it love, but she knew it went deeper than that. Narcissa knew, and somehow, she sensed Lord Voldemort knew it to.

“You would kill a wizard, a pureblood wizard, to save your own master,” he stated almost inaudibly. “And yet you stand here, ready to take the blame just to save him. You must care for him a great deal to risk your life like that.”

That wasn’t it; not the way he was phrasing, and as much as she wanted to correct him, she kept her mouth shut. “Yes,” she said quietly, and bowed her head. “Macnair was going to kill ‘im. It was my fault, and Barty was just trying to protect me.”

“So a pureblood wizard, one in my inner circle, was killed by a wandless veela,” Lord Voldemort said, disgust clear in his voice. “He did have his uses though, someone very useful to spy on the ministry. Very useful…”

Barty was sitting up now, his face still white. Fleur kneeled down to his crumpled form, wrapping her arms around him. “Can you stand?” she asked quietly. He leaned into her embrace, his lips near her ear so he could speak without being detected.

“In a moment,” he whispered. “Just give me a moment.”

A heavy silence fell upon the drawing room. Barty sat there, breathing heavily, clutching her arms tightly. Fleur kept her eyes on the Dark Lord, who was observing the two of them with such scrutiny, she sent her mental shield up again, just for safe measures. She didn’t like the way he was staring at them, and though she could not see it, she knew the wheels in his mind were turning. His eyes glowed with an inhuman gleam, and she wondered if she should even call him a man when he looked like something completely different.

Then, without warning, Lord Voldemort called out sharply. “Arise, Bartemius. Stand up!” he snapped, and Barty slowly began rising to his feet. The pale man smiled. “You have received your punishment, and I have decided to forgive you.”

Still white as paper, Barty finally managed to stand without Fleur having to support him. He bowed to his master, and Fleur only watched with disbelief as he gazed at Lord Voldemort with absolute respect and awe. “Thank you, my lord,” he said humbly. “I am sorry to have displeased you so. I will make sure it does not happen again.”

“You must make sure that it doesn’t,” Lord Voldemort said silkily. “I would hate to have to take your veela from you and…rehouse her somewhere else.”

She doubted it, Fleur thought and repressed the sudden urge to snort. The Dark Lord wouldn’t give a damn if he had to kill her. Or Barty, she added with a slight pang of alarm. She took his hand, and he gripped it back just as tightly.

Lord Voldemort ignored the small display of affection and strode towards the direction of the window nearest the fire. “I must admit, I thought giving you to Bartemius as a bed warmer would simply just amuse him. I never gave much thought into veela, but I wonder now,” he looked back to Fleur with a twisted smile. “There is something about you, something I have not seen in a creature like your kind before. You have secured me my giants, and without a wand, might I add. There is more to you than just being pretty.”

She wasn’t aware of him moving towards her until those death cold fingers gripped her chin. She forced herself to stand completely still, despite every urge in her wanting nothing more than to retch on his robes. “Not just a pretty face,” he muttered quietly, but whether it was to her or to himself, she didn’t want to know. “I wonder just how useful you will be for me. Tell me, girl, what is your name?”

“Fleur,” she said, managing not to shrink away from his unnerving gaze. “Fleur Delacour.”

“Delacour,” he said, and he sounded somewhat impressed now. “Your father works for the French Ministry. Your grandmother’s story is one mothers tell their daughters. You are no pureblood, but there is not an ounce of filthy muggle blood in you, is there? Your family served in many courts throughout the ages, did they not?”

How could he have possibly known that? Fleur gulped and nodded her head. “Yes,” she admitted. “My family ‘as served many courts in France.”

From Louis the XIV, the sun king, to Marie Antoinette and her lavish lifestyle, the Delacour’s were there. Under different names and identities, but nonetheless establishing their power and influence. Even under the turbulent control of Napoleon Bonaparte, the Delacour’s maintained their status and prestige. Despite this, they never married the members of the French courts, preferring those of their own magical community. Like some pureblood families, hers was not opposed to marrying half-bloods. Yet even she was aware of her ancestor’s prejudice. None of the half-bloods they married had non-magique ancestry. Yet she could still say with pride that they never called for the deaths and extinction of the non-magique.

Lord Voldemort released her brusquely, jerking her face away before he smiled towards Barty. “I think,” he said, almost pleasantly now. “That you both are deserving of a reward. For your services to me.”

“My lord,” Barty bowed even deeply. “Might I ask you for a favor?”

“If it is within reason, Bartemius,” Lord Voldemort smirked. “Then I might permit it. If again, it is within reason.”

Barty nodded, but when he said nothing more, Fleur glanced at him warily. What would he ask the Dark Lord that he would not ask in front of her? Something unpleasant, she imagined, but couldn’t figure out what that was. But she didn’t have time to think on that further when she notice that gaze fall to her once more.

“Little girl, I think I know just the reward for you,” Lord Voldemort returned to his chair, no, his throne. He ease back into it, stroking the snake’s chin as one would a cat. “Bartemius, take out your wand.”

“My lord?”

“Our little veela has done well for our cause, has she not?” it took Fleur considerable amount of effort not to blanch at those words. Yet Lord Voldemort ignored her discomfort, for he spoke only to Barty now. “She has proven herself to be worthy, I think. To use so much power to sway giants to our side again, considering the gifts Dumbledore brought for them. I think she has earned herself our mark.”

Fleur’s eyes widened at the implication. “Non,” she backed away, narrowly escaping Barty’s grasp when he tried to reach for her wrist. She glared at them both. “Non, not that, anything but that!”

“My lord,” Barty spoke slowly, carefully choosing his words as he addressed his master. “She is a veela, and the others may not necessarily agree with her bearing your mark. Fenrir Greyback will be asking for one next.”

“I understand your concerns, Bartemius,” Lord Voldemort waved him off easily. “But that werewolf does not have an ounce of magic in his blood. This girl, despite her less than desirable qualifications, still possess magic. I intend to keep those who are useful for our cause. It would be a waste not to use her talents, would you not agree?”

“Of course, my lord,” Barty agreed quietly. “It was only out of concern for you I speak out. I have no desire to listen to the others, who may not respond so positively to this.”

“I will take care of those who question my motives, Bartemius,” Lord Voldemort said so softly, so quietly that Fleur backed away again. “It would be wise for you, Bartemius, to not question me again.”

“Yes, my lord,” Barty apologized at once. “I only thought I would voice my concerns, that is all.”

“And your concerns have been taken into consideration,” Lord Voldemort started, not sounding the least bit interested in Barty’s apology. “That is why you are to give her the mark.”

“My lord?”

“You know how to do it; you’ve seen me give it before,” Lord Voldemort smiled twistedly. “You should consider it an honor, Bartemius. You have convinced me she is not some common bed warmer, but one who has use for our cause.”

“As you wish, my lord,” Barty said solemnly. “If that is what you ask, I will do it.”

He turned to Fleur, who backed away even more. She was pressed up against an end table, her hands gripping the edge in order to support her weak knees. “Please,” she pleaded to Barty, and for a moment, she saw him hesitate. He stopped a few feet away from her, and she quickly wet her lips. “Do not do this, please, do not do this to me!”

He pressed forward, his cold fingers encircling around her left wrist and pulled it towards him. He kissed her forehead, lingering there as he whispered against her flesh. “It will only hurt for a moment,” he pushed the material of her sleeve up her arm, exposing moon white flesh. An open canvas for him to decorate. “Just relax, it’ll be over soon enough.”

The cool tip of his wand contrasted with the warmth of his fingertips burning into her skin. It traced up from the base of her wrist to the soft flesh of her inner arm, stopping in the middle. She felt the magic coming off his wand; her goosebumps rising and her body going rigid with fear of what was to come. She lifted her head to see Lord Voldemort watching, his eyes glowing in the emerald light, and at once, Fleur understood.

This was both a gift and a punishment. She didn’t have to be a genius to figure out why. A gift to say that she would remain alive, for the time being, and a punishment for having killed one of his own. A way of reminding her that he was watching her every move. That no matter where she went, it would always be a stark reminder of what she had done. A single stray tear slipped down her face at the realization, but she was too engrossed by watching Barty’s movements to even care.

The wand work was no longer leisurely pressing on her skin, but deliberate and exact. There was a sort of numbness at first, and Fleur closed her eyes at the familiar feeling. The dark magic seeped into her skin, turning her blood ice cold. It circulated through her blood cycle, through the arteries and deeper still. Her magical core, still so weak after her use of such raw power from the giants, was no match in combating it. Her magical core normally felt like that of a warm light, pulsing and burning brightly like a flame. Now, along the fiery strands of magic, it had begun to crystalize and harden. The darkness already there welcomed the unwanted intrusion like an old friend.

The pain bloomed before her eyes, and Fleur let out a sharp cry. Fresh tears poured down her face, like a faucet, and dripped down onto her arm and his hands. The pain was overwhelming, everywhere at once and burning like cold fire in her veins. She could only stare at her arm as black ink bloomed from the tip of the wand, slowly spreading to form a shape she knew only too well. The snake forming on her arm sneered up at her, mocking her for this cruel twist of fate.

Her own tear-filled blue eyes met Barty’s, and what she saw burning in them was regret. He didn’t want to do this, but he would obey his master’s command whether he liked it or not. His mouth was a thin line, and he gripped her arm even tighter, and fresh bruises were beginning to form from how hard he was holding her.

“It’ll be over soon, love,” he whispered in her ear, his voice gentle and reassuring. “Just hang in there, now, I’m almost done.”

When it was, Fleur’s eyes nearly lolled back into her head. Barty immediately pocketed his wand, and helped her onto the floor, his hand rubbing her left shoulder in a small way of comfort. “You did it,” he whispered. “It’s done now; it’s all over, my little champion.”

She thought she was going to retch, or even worse, pass out on the floor. Barty released her shaking form, standing before his master with a blank expression. “Might I send her to Narcissa?” he asked without even sounding upset by what he had to do. “I have something I want to ask you in private, if that is alright, my lord.”

“I have no use for her at this moment,” Lord Voldemort said carelessly. “Yes, send her to our dear Narcissa. You have something you wish to discuss with me, Bartemius?”

“Yes, my lord,” Barty nodded. “If you will give me just one moment, please.”

Lord Voldemort said nothing, but he leaned back into his seat and began speaking to Nagini in a hissing language Fleur did not understand. Hands grasped her upper arms, slowly bringing her to her feet. She leaned on Barty all the way to the door, shaking like a leaf in the wind. He waved the door open, and Fleur was not surprised to see Narcissa standing there outside. Her thin lips pursed and looking from her to Barty. Without even having to say anything, Narcissa took Fleur’s hand.

“I will take her from here,” Narcissa began stiffly. “We will be in the conservatory when you are finished.”

Narcissa took her by the arm and lead her away before Barty could say anything. Fleur heard the doors close soundly behind her, but she focused more on the searing pain in her left arm and the dull ache her magical core pulsated deep within her. She said nothing, refusing to look at the horrid mark on her arm. Narcissa’s grip pulled firmly on her, and in the darkness, her well-manicured nails carried a strange sort of glow as they reflected on the candlelight.

The conservatory sat at the back of the house, overlooking the expansive garden outside. Walking through the passage that connected the room to the main house, she notice the lighting around her grow brighter. The door swung open gently at Narcissa’s presence, a cool breeze coming to ruffle Fleur’s hair and soothed the cold burning in her arm.

The addition to the manor looked recent enough, and it was certainly a place Fleur would love to have in her own home. Surrounded by verdant green plants nestled against comfy armchairs and sofas. In the center of the room sat a small ornate white table with identical chairs, each looking like they cost more money than the Delacour’s had.

Immediately, Narcissa sat Fleur down in one of the soft looking sofas, pulling her left wrist into her cold hands. “What was he thinking?” Narcissa hissed, gently prodding the inflamed area without touching the mark itself. “Does he have a death wish for you?”

Something was suddenly put into her hands; a cup of tea that was so warm it shocked her. Fleur stared down at the murky dark liquid, the steam rising up and curling against her pale face. The difference of the cold burning pain in her arm and the warm teacup was a strange combination. Numbly, she brought the cup to her lips, blew, and took a sip.

She nearly choked, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand carelessly as tea dribbled down her shirt. There was something…not quite right about this tea. It tasted different than the tea she was used to when it was prepared by Winky, or more recently, by Barty. She coughed again, immediately setting the cup aside. The loss of warmth brought a chilling sensation up her spine, and for a moment, she thought she was going to be sick.

Narcissa narrowed her eyes in disapproval, her lips twisting. “Have you no manners?” she hissed, using her wand to wave away the droplets of tea that spilled onto the sofa. “It’s tea, not poison. I’m not going to kill you, stupid girl.”

There was blood roaring in her ears, Narcissa’s voice a distant hum that was muddled and distorted. As Narcissa grumbled about Barty, Fleur didn’t care. Not about Narcissa’s complaints, about Lord Voldemort, not even about the web Barty wove around her. Blocking any chance at freedom; of any sort of happiness she could possibly find in this horrid nightmare.

Fleur was tired. All she wanted to do was sleep and forget the cold burning on her arm. The tattoo stared mockingly up at her, a reminder now that there was no escape. No matter where Fleur would go in the world, it would be there. Fleur wanted to cry. She wanted to scream; to hit whoever was nearest towards her. But more than that, she wanted this _thing_ off her arm.

The next few moments were a blur.

It was like an out of body experience. She was witnessing, but not feeling as she grabbed something sharp off the table. She had escaped Narcissa’s grasp and flung herself to the table, grabbing a letter opener. The next thing she remembered was repeated sharp pain.

She took the letter opener and plunged it into the mark on her arm. She didn’t even register Narcissa’s surprised shout, she just kept stabbing at the tattoo. Thick red blood poured down her white flesh, marring it the same color only a few weeks ago on that night she took someone’s life. The impact made her scream out in both pain and anger. She sliced the blade into her skin, the rivulets of blood dripping onto the white and black tiles below, merging into little pools with each drop.

“Merlin help us all, what are you doing!”

Fleur fought Narcissa’s hold, shouting and trying to grab the letter opener from the older witch’s hands. The pain was nearly as bad as the pain she felt now, her body still recovering from the ordeal she had been through. Narcissa flung the sharp object away, yanking Fleur by the hair and forcing her to stay down.

“Are you trying to kill yourself?” Narcissa was nearly shouting in her ear as Fleur’s shrieks morphed into sobs. “Are you? Do you think he will allow you to die like this? Your life is not your own; not anymore! Merlin and Morgana, you stupid girl, I have not spent hours of my time trying to help you adapt just so you can slit your own wrists!”

Fleur’s body shook uncontrollably, but she didn’t fight Narcissa when she grabbed at her bleeding arm. She felt the cold tip of the woman’s wand and heard the murmurs of what she assumed were healing spells, but she didn’t care. The pain had ceased now, and the blood on her clothes and on the floor were fading, but she still did not care.

She couldn’t stop shaking. Her whole body shook underneath Narcissa’s grip and more sobs left her throat. She cried harder than she ever had before, as though she were an infant taking its breath for the first time. Her shaking hands curled into fists, lightly slamming the tiled floor beneath her.

“I can’t do this,” she said hoarsely, in between sobs. “I’m just eighteen; I can’t do this. I don’t want to work for ‘im. I just want to go ‘ome; I never asked for this! I want…I want my maman and papa…”

It was futile, laying here on the ground and crying. It almost seemed like a stupid thing to do, given that her fate now lay in Barty’s hands. Escaping wasn’t going to work and relying on keeping him in the Dark Lord’s favor through all this was the only way she was going to stay alive.

But still, she was a girl who never asked for any of this. What had she done in life so badly that she had to be the unfortunate victim of his desires? She didn’t wish this on anyone else; she could think of so many people she would never wish this on. Yet she was still a little girl caught up in a game much bigger than herself. She had no way of getting out, she just had to keep playing.

And that, Fleur let out another sob, really was the worst of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not a super important headcanon is that Vinda Rosier is the mother of Druella Black (nee Rosier) and the grandmother of Bellatrix, Andromeda and Narcissa. It's possible she could be an aunt, but until the name of Druella's mother is revealed, this is my headcanon. Because screw it, I do what I want (in my best Cartman impression).
> 
> I think Voldemort would be rather creative in how he punishes people at the moment; he was in Slytherin. Which is my Hogwarts house, if anyone cares. So yeah, he's intrigued by Fleur because how many people can say they've naturally resisted him like this, aside from Harry, Dumbledore and perhaps a few unmentioned others? And she's a veela, secured a part of his army, and is part of a prestigious magical French family. So she's going to be rather useful to keep around in his eyes. Greyback is going to be so jealous. Poor Fleur though. 
> 
> I also want to say that she wasn't trying to kill herself. She's just snapped and had an emotional break down. Who wouldn't after an encounter like that? I wonder what Barty could be planning? Well, I know what it is, but you guys will have to wait till next time! I go back to work today (finally) so I will see you all later! As always, feel free to comment and I hope you all are staying safe out there!


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I'm back with another update, so I hope you are all ready! A bombshell is dropped in this one, so be prepared! I've been reading up on veela lore and stuff, so I'm incorporating those ideas in this and expanding on their culture. Thanks again so much for your comments; your little discussions are so interesting and while I can't give away what will happen, your speculations are always fun to read :)
> 
> I'll keep the introduction short, so here's the chapter!
> 
> Also the playlist for this story is now public on spotify if you would care to listen to! I'm also thinking of putting it on youtube in the event someone doesn't have it and would like to listen. It's by the same title as this fic, and it'll have an image I put together of our couple.

Almost two weeks of Fleur being unconscious was bad, but three weeks of practically cold silence Barty decided was even worse.

The house stood disturbingly quiet. Fleur rarely ever said anything to him, other than occasional remarks or the clipped way she spoke when answering questions. She wasn’t ignoring him, per say, but she was definitely short with him. Cold, but not necessarily unkind either. He never got past arm’s length. Every time he tried to get near her, she would retreat further into herself. Withdraw away from the world around her; floating through the house like a spirt.

Except that spirit’s didn’t have a spark in their eyes. Fleur was far from defeated, but she wasn’t herself either. What he did know, was that she was angry with him and this was her own new way of punishing him. This form of silent treatment wasn’t what was used to and dear Merlin, it was starting to grind on his nerves.

However, Barty wasn’t sure what to do about her. It would be easier, he supposed, to put her under the Imperious curse, but what was the fun in that? She wouldn’t be herself and he didn’t want some docile little pet. He wanted the woman he had fallen in love with back, not a shell of her former self. He knew she was still in there; he could see it in her eyes, but she just couldn’t bring herself to fully return to reality.

“Mistress just needs more time, that’s what Winky thinks. Mistress has been through a lot, so she needs plenty of peace and quiet.” Winky said to him brightly while she had to spoon feed Fleur. That was two days after the Dark Lord branded her, and upon returning home, she sat so still and silent. Just like she had back at the inn in Russia.

Barty closed his eyes, the memory still fresh in his mind of the event that took place only three weeks before. The favor he had asked his master went through perfectly, and he had been so eager to find Fleur and hold her; tell her she done so well in front of their master. He didn’t expect to see her on the ground, sobbing like he’d ever seen her do before. Narcissa leaning over her, muttering a spell that immediately caught his attention. It took him a split second to realize what had happened.

“Fantastic job, Barty, seriously well done,” his cousin snapped at him. “She’s got blood all over my floor and on my clothes. What were you thinking in giving her the mark!?”

Fleur had attempted to remove the mark with a letter opener. A rather stupid plan, but he could forgive her moment of weakness. He shooed Narcissa away, gathering the young woman in his arms and cradled her softly to his chest. He didn’t even get to say anything when, whether subconsciously or not, she burrowed herself deeper into his embrace. Narcissa looked disgusted at the very sight, but he ignored her in favor of attending to his Fleur’s needs.

The new shift in their relationship was one they were both still trying to figure out. Before recent events, he wasn’t used to her initiating contact so wholeheartedly. Now it seemed they were back to square one, where she would rather be near a dementor than be near him. Frustrating, to say the least, and he wasn’t sure what to do about it.

Letting her go was not an option, both because she knew too much and he had no desire to have her fly away; to have only the smallest hope that she would return to him. This was her world now and she needed to adapt to it. How ever long it took, he didn’t care, but she had better do it soon for both their sakes. Who knew when the Dark Lord would call upon her, and the Dark Lord was less forgiving than Barty was. If she didn’t pull herself together soon, well, he didn’t want to know what the consequences would be.

Thoughts of Fleur aside, Barty rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. The afternoon September sun beat coolly down into the room, the rays striking his face gently. The book open before him was one that had taken ages for him to acquire. Bound in deep blue outlined in gold, cracked and dry with age, the thick volume smelled faintly of dust and pine. The pages within were brittle an what remained of the tome’s original stitching barely held it together.

A rare book, only one copy ever produced, and once belonged to Herpo the Foul. Written in Ancient Runes, Barty spent most of his time either in his mother’s library or at Malfoy’s manor to study Abraxas Malfoy’s collection of Ancient Runic literature.

The task Lord Voldemort gave him was one that Barty was only too eager to take. The sorting hat did consider putting him in Ravenclaw. However, this mission was much more interesting, and less physically demanding, than the mission with the giants. The Ancient Greeks were vastly interested in the subject he was delving into, almost as much as the Ancient Egyptians. Though he was still searching for a book from there.

It would be easier, he thought with a great sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose, if he could go out without anyone recognizing him. Yet fortune did not favor him in this department, so he would have to make do for now. He didn’t even let Winky leave the house very often, for fear that someone would recognize her. The Ministry didn’t care about what he was doing; but Dumbledore had his spies everywhere.

The second he slipped up it would be over, and Fleur would be gone.

He closed the book carefully, mindful of the ancient yellowish pages that pressed together with crisp delicateness. He waved his hand, the book returning to its spot on the shelf and he stood with a slight groan. He’d been sitting at the polished Edwardian oak desk for hours, and his upper back protested at the sudden movement. He rolled his shoulders back, hearing his spine pop. He was only thirty-three; he wasn’t supposed to feel like an old man.

He glanced over at the grandfather clock tucked away, an heirloom of the Greengrass family for over 305 years. It was pushing onto half past three, now. If he didn’t get a move on, he would be late for his meeting and that would make the hostess very cross with him. Well, more cross than she already was at him.

He pushed the door to the library open and strode down the illuminated hallway. It didn’t take him very long to find Fleur, curled up in one of the parlor’s armchairs with a large sketching pad in her lap and a pencil twirling idly in her fingers. It was a recent present he brought her, and as much as he took delight in her using it, it still didn’t rise much of a reaction out of her.

She only briefly looked up at him as he stood there, not even bothering to greet him. Barty ignored that; he wasn’t in the mood to stroke the fire, but it still stung a little that she refused to say much of anything to him.

“I am going to the Malfoy’s for a bit,” Barty said finally, searching her face for any sort of acknowledgement. Yet, she merely stared back at him blankly. He fought back the urge to sigh. “There is business there I need to attend to. I’ll be back before dinner.”

He paused for a moment, waiting to hear what she was going to say. However, she simply shrugged and pressed her lips together in a thin line. “Fine,” Fleur said finally.

Fine. That’s all she had to say.

“Fine,” he said back just as coldly and turned on his heel.

~

“You’re late.”

Narcissa sat like a queen at the ornate white tea table, her back straight as a wand and eyes closed as she sipped her tea. Barty hadn’t even taken a step inside the conservatory when Narcissa raised her eyes, the sharpness of her gaze piercing him. She set the teacup down silently, lips pursed tautly.

“When one is invited to afternoon tea, it is considered polite to show up on time,” Narcissa let out a sigh. “But it seems that you have forgotten your manners.”

“I apologize,” Barty resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “It was rude of me to impose on your time, Narcissa.”

Narcissa gave him the side eye and shook her head slightly. She gestured for Barty to take a seat in the chair across from her. With a wave of her slim black wand, a fancy porcelain white and blue teapot began pouring tea into small dainty cups from where they sat on eggshell white saucers. A miniature silver tray held a sugar-dish, a cream-pot, and a half-dozen gold-lined souvenir spoons. It was only half past three, the grandfather clock nearby chimed, and to Barty it felt like he had been at the manor forever.

He eyed the other silver tray holding an assortment of Devonshire splits, but he wasn’t hungry. Barty stayed silent as Narcissa with a flourish of her wand poured milk into his teacup. Even though it had been awhile, the older witch still remembered that Barty was not overly found of sugar in his tea. He traced the handle of the tiny cup, lightly tracing the cup’s emerald green floral design.

“I believe I told you to watch out for Macnair, not to kill him,” Narcissa broke the awkward silence swiftly. “Though I cannot say I am overcome with emotion over his passing.”

“You and the Dark Lord both,” Barty uttered, still staring at the cup. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like that. It was supposed to be a duel between us; I never told her to jump in and-”

“Kill a man?” Narcissa interrupted, eyebrows raised. “If you can even call him that. I never liked him, not even when we were children. No sense of propriety at all for one who claimed to be better than mud bloods and blood traitors.”

Barty shifted, having almost forgotten that his cousin had known the former Death Eater longer than he had. “His blood wasn’t as pure as ours,” he offered carefully, though he knew he had no reason to worry. There were no direct muggles or muggle burns in his family line. “His family wasn’t prominent enough to even be considered as part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.”

Narcissa set down her teacup in effortless grace. Her eyes clouded over with thought, and Barty thought that something must have been weighing down on her mind. Within a flash, it was gone, and she rolled her shoulders back easily. “Be that as it may, there are those who are displeased with you,” Narcissa said collectedly, turning her attention to one of the pastries on the tray. “Edward Crabbe and Milton Goyle were most upset when they heard the news. They went to the Dark Lord demanding your death.”

Barty didn’t stop the grin from showing. “And how well did that go for those cowards?” he asked without feeling remotely sorry for insulting her family’s connections. “Those two were always rather useless, even during the first war. No talent or sense of prestige, unlike your Lucius. Even their sons are as thick as they are.”

Narcissa stared at him disapprovingly, though her lips did twitch in amusement. “How well do you think?” she paused in cutting the bun, opting to glare at him instead. “As much as you may dislike them, you do have to work with them. You may be in the Dark Lord’s favor, but if something were to happen to you, do you think they would step in and help you?”

She had a point, he supposed. Barty sighed and nodded to her. “You’re right of course, Cissy,” he grinned as she bristled at her childish nickname. If he recalled correctly, Priscilla Crabbe and Agnes Goyle, were two of Narcissa’s good friends. “I do not mean to offend you. I understand they are family friends.”

“Priscilla is a braggart, and Agnes looks like a horse,” Narcissa started thinly, with no remorse at all for insulting her friends. “But they come from good breeding and it is important for Draco to be around people of such standards. However, now that I’m thinking about it, Octavia Nott was such a wallflower during parties.”

“Was?” Barty asked in surprise, recalling Titus Nott’s wife vaguely. “When did she pass?”

Narcissa scoffed. “How did you not know? Oh, never mind, it makes sense you wouldn’t know that,” she shook her head. “She died of dragon pox after going on vacation in 85. Quite the surprise, too, she always appeared to be in perfect health, but alas these things do happen.”

He shouldn’t have been surprised; he was under the Imperious curse at the time. He remembered the Nott’s son, Theodore, who surprisingly was more intelligent than his own father. One of the smarter members of Draco’s little gang.

Narcissa took another sip of tea and eyed him over the rim of the teacup. “As interesting as my friends are,” she began serenely, but he caught the slightly annoyed tone in her voice. “We are not here to discuss them. What I am here to discuss with you is the mark on that girl’s wrist.”

Oh, that.

“It was not my idea,” Barty answered with a sigh. “She shouldn’t have it, and I’m fairly certain this is her punishment for killing Macnair, otherwise the Dark Lord would not have given it to her.”

Narcissa pursed her lips together. “It is a bad idea. She did not take it well, as I am sure you remember.”

How could he not remember? The sight was still fresh in his mind, seeing her there on the floor with blood all over her. “She is fine now,” he lied, and she must have seen it on his face. Narcissa was always good at catching liars; it would be a mistake to lie to her now. “She won’t really talk to me. We were making progress, and now we’re back to where we were when I first brought her home.”

Barty thought he heard Narcissa snort at the word “brought”, but he dismissed it. “When we do speak, it’s always short. She’s not herself; not really. She’s closed herself off, and I’m not sure what to really do about it.”

Narcissa raised her eyebrow. “Well what did you expect? For her to just forgive you when giving her something she clearly didn’t want? I swear Barty, you understand nothing about women,” she raised her eyes to sky, as if asking Merlin for help. “I don’t think giving her space is going to be enough this time.”

Barty glared. “That’s what I’ve been doing; giving her nothing but space,” he stared into the teacup, steadily growing cold. “I’ve given her a few presents, like you suggested a few months ago. I’ve been giving her space because of all that’s happened. I can’t even be near her without her fluttering away like some caged songbird.”

“Then perhaps you need to do something to show her how sorry you are for what’s happened,” Narcissa poured herself more tea, completely at ease in comparison to his stress. “I commend your efforts, but you need to do something to show her how much you…love her.”

Narcissa blanched at the very word, as though it were something foul in her mouth. He dismissed it once again. After all, he didn’t expect any of them to understand. Maybe Bellatrix would, but even then, that would only be to a certain extent. His former mentor would probably laugh in his face before turning to him, with a sneer on her face, and berate him for having fallen in love with a veela. It would only be too easy for him to criticize her on being a married woman in love with the Dark Lord. He would love to see the harsh anger on her face, but in the end, he wouldn’t do that. He didn’t have a death wish, after all.

“Or perhaps there is nothing you can do,” Narcissa considered her words carefully, not at all bothered by the cold stare he was sending her way. “You kidnapped her, after all, and since then she’s faced nothing but difficulties. Far be it from me to tell you how to live your life, but you can’t just sit there and expect to have a _normal_ relationship.”

He didn’t want to acknowledge it, but she did have a point. He wasn’t expecting Fleur to accept him right away; he wasn’t that romantic, yet there was a part of him that wanted what Narcissa was suggesting. Barty tended to think pragmatically. Obviously he’d upheaved Fleur’s entire life and intentionally or not, put her in situations she had no desire to be in. He didn’t blame her for being angry, he truly didn’t. Except, if she would just let him help her, then things had the possibility of changing.

She could survive, even truly live, if she would just stop resisting him. There was something in her eyes when she held him during their meeting with the Dark Lord. Fear for him, he thought, and that look still burned in his mind. Slowly, painfully slowly, she was allowing him into her life. They were connected in a way the others couldn’t understand.

“How can we have a _normal_ relationship? I’m not an idiot, Narcissa. I am a Death Eater, and the idea of what is normal is debatable,” now he definitely heard her snort, though she hid it well as she drank more tea. “You’re married to a Death Eater. Is this why you’re so interested in her?”

“I’m not interested in her in the slightest,” Narcissa said primly. “I’ve just given her advice from time to time.”

“Right, you certainly don’t care,” Barty raised his eyes, and managed not to feel uneasy when her sharp gaze narrowed. He raised his hands in defense. “I’m not trying to upset you, Cissy. You know I wouldn’t dream of doing that.”

Narcissa pursed her lips together, and with another quick wave of her wand, poured more tea into her cup. She paused momentarily when adding milk, the question on the tip of her tongue. “Did you never learn how to make a good cup of tea?”

Barty frowned, taken aback by the sudden question. He’d been taking a sip out of his own tea when she asked and found himself vaguely insulted. “Of course I know how to make a good cup of tea. I’ve been preparing it since I was able to walk.”

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He’d been preparing tea since the age of eight, when his mother’s body was too weak to even get out of bed and she hadn’t been able to take care of him. So while Winky cleaned the house and looked after his mother, the very least he’d been able to do was make her tea. So, insinuating he didn’t know how to brew a good cuppa was more than a little insulting.

“Perhaps you’re not as good as you think,” Narcissa said briskly. “I gave your veela some tea and she spat it out. Quite rude, I might add. It’s almost as if she thought the tea I prepared wasn’t up to her standards, the little snob.”

Barty’s hold on the teacup tightened. “Your tea is lovely, Narcissa. Fleur is just particular when it comes to things she isn’t used to. She is French, after all.”

“Or maybe she thinks the tea didn’t taste right. Like I would try and poison her,” Narcissa rolled her eyes. “Honestly, that would be more work than I would ever care to do.”

Although considering the family she’d married into, Barty highly doubted that. Narcissa’s question had been a little too on the nose, and he could only hope that she wouldn’t press it any further. To his relief, she didn’t. Instead, she simply added a spoonful of sugar to her tea, her face betraying nothing.

“Lucius found what you were looking for,” she said after a moment’s pause. “It’s in our library if you would like to see it.”

“I very much would,” Barty leaned forward, suddenly interested. He then reconsidered at the blonde eyebrow raised in his direction, and he lowered his head. “At your leisure, naturally.”

As much as he was itching to go and see the item Lucius had found for him, he waited for his cousin to be done with her tea. It would have been easier if he didn’t have to keep a low profile, but all the same, he was eager to get his hands on the valuable relic. Even though it meant that he would be in the Malfoy’s debt for some time, it would all be worth it in the end.

Finally, Narcissa set the teacup down and stood gracefully. “Follow me,” she beckoned for him to follow her out of the conservatory.

The library was located on the second floor of the manor, and like the rest of the home, it was no less grand. Due to the sharp crispness in the air, a brilliant fire was roaring in the hearth, highlighting the warmth of the deep red velvet armchairs. Above the mantle sat a portrait of Abraxas and Hypatia Malfoy, looking down disparagingly at all who were not a part of their family. All the books were color coded, each section listed by genre and sorted alphabetically. On a large mahogany book table, there it stood, the book he’d been most eager to get ahold of.

It was an ancient looking tome; its writing in the runic language of the ancient days. The cracked brown leather had been worn from years of shifting from owner to owner. The manila pages smelled of dust and cypress leaves, but he was more than happy to finally hold the book in his hands.

Narcissa peered over his shoulder to get a better look. “You have no idea how hard it was to get ahold of this,” she sounded impressed, a major feat coming from her. “Out of all the books written, this is the one you’ve been searching for?”

“Yes,” Barty answered her, his attention still fully on the book in front of him. “It’s been my personal mission for a while now. Of course, it had to be put on hold when I went to the giant colony. I will be in yours and Lucius’ debt for a long time.”

Narcissa raised her eyes. “Naturally,” she said, but there was a small smile there. “Did you ever take Ancient Runes?”

“I did,” Barty replied indistinctly, searching through the ancient writing not even faded even after years of disuse. “Twelve O.W.Ls remember?”

“Congratulations,” the sarcasm dripped from her voice, but her eyes were distant. “Draco will be taking them this year.”

Barty said nothing to that, not wanting to offend her with some rather rude statement about her son. Without even thinking about it, a memory passed before him. A rare moment from his childhood. Sitting on his father’s lap, the man going over the various symbols and explaining what they meant. Praising him when he got one right. His father was widely known for his skill with languages; a trait that ran in the Crouch family. Except it had skipped Barty and he wasn’t sure his father had ever forgiven him for that.

“The author of this book,” Narcissa took the book from him. “What sort of a name is this? Ravijojla?”

At the way her eyes went wide, Barty had to suppress the urge to grin. “A veela,” he said, answering her unspoken question. “This is written by the veela Ravijojla, about the nature of her people.”

Narcissa narrowed her eyes. “What are you planning?” she asked suspiciously, not at all abashed by the blunt question. “Why do you need a book on veela? Do you not know your own well enough that you need a guidebook?”

She sneered at him, but that soon fell when he uttered the very words that caused the color out of her face to drain. “I’m going to marry her.”

Narcissa stared at him like an owl for what seemed to be several long moments. Her mouth opened, closed, and then opened again. Unsure of what to say, or how to phrase it. She seemed to be bordering on shock and disbelief before finally settling on another emotion: scandalized.

“You can’t be serious,” she shook her head, as though she’d somehow misheard him. “I get that in some strange way you love her, but marriage? Do you expect anyone to support this?”

“I already have the Dark Lord’s blessing,” Barty said evenly, noticing how even more color drained from her face. “She comes from a prominent magical family in France. Not a single ounce of muggle blood in her.”

“Except for the fact she’s a quarter veela,” Narcissa stated pointedly. “A common half-breed.”

Barty waved her off. “She is a half-breed; there’s no denying that, but I have my reasons for wanting to make it official. The Dark Lord knows my reasons, and he does not object them. I believe that should be enough to suffice the others,” well, the ones not in Azkaban anyway. “I wasn’t planning on marrying her, originally, but things are changing. If she bears my name, she will have even more protection.”

Narcissa still did not look convinced. “She’s still a half-breed. How well do you think this will go down with the others?”

“If they know what’s good for them, they won’t say anything,” Barty sneered. “They don’t need to know why I’m doing this, and if we’re being honest here, there are half-bloods in the Malfoy family, aren’t there?”

Narcissa glare turned frosty. “None of them had recent muggle heritage, and they never married half-bloods coming from direct muggle backgrounds. Unlike some members of my family, the Malfoys are above marrying those too closely related.”

“And so are the Crouch’s,” he said reasonably. “If she had muggle relatives, then naturally I wouldn’t marry her, but things are changing. If my theory is correct, then our marriage will be one that no one will ever forget.”

“How so?” Narcissa arched a pale eyebrow. “Because she’s a veela?”

“Well, they might be interested in seeing that,” Barty thought aloud, and nodded to himself. It would be a sight, even if he wasn’t the one marrying her. He then shook his head, shooing those thoughts aside. “I’ve been researching old magic for months now, and I’ve learned some interesting things. Herpo the Foul’s journeys through Europe recount some fascinating old magic.”

“How old?” Narcissa asked curiously. “What sort of magic?”

“Soul magic,” Barty answered causally, though it didn’t do much to curb the swell of pride in his chest. “A lot of it is scattered without much detail, but his travels through Eastern Europe are quite extensive. The soul is quite a fickle thing, and it’s the most complicated source of magic I’ve ever seen. It’s probably what the Unspeakables in the Ministry study. But you’d have to ask Rookwood all about that.”

“Did he come across veela?” Narcissa, always quick to put things together, asked quietly.

“He did,” Barty answered happily. “And this book here will help me in further understanding their bonds to each other.”

“Bonds?”

“Bonds,” Barty echoed. “Their kinship to each other goes deeper than most people expect. I didn’t even know of it till recently.”

“And you think the veela Ravijojla can explain these bonds?”

“Certainly,” Barty deftly stroked the leather binding of the book. “She’s mentioned in Serbian epic Poetry that I came across during my research. And she was bonded to Marko Mrnjavčević, better known as Prince Marko.”

“Bonded,” Narcissa frowned heavily, and she stared at him as if he’d truly gone mad. “You intend to bind her to you. Merlin’s beard, there is no way she is going to agree to that. Does she even know what you’re planning?”

“I doubt she even knows about it,” Barty brushed Narcissa’s concern off. “And even if she does, well, I am quite persuasive.”

“Clearly,” Narcissa stated dryly. “Well, you will have to tell me how her rejection goes. Considering, after all, how angry she is with you.”

Considering how angry she currently was with him; he knew it wasn’t going to be as easy as he made it sound. Anxiously, he put his hand into the pocket of his robes and found the ring inside. The engagement ring was specially crafted by his great-grandfather, Wealdmaer Crouch for his great-grandmother, Godiva Carrow. The ring was then passed down to his grandmother, Charis Black and then given to his father when he proposed to his mother. Now the ring would soon belong to his princess. Assuming though that she would accept.

She would, Barty thought. She didn’t really have a choice in the matter, and she would see that when he presented what the repercussions of saying no to him would be. Fleur could be angry with him all she wanted, but in the end, they were still a part of each other. She belonged to him as much as he belonged to her. If forming a life link was the best way to save her, then so be it.

“I’m going to propose to her on her birthday,” Barty said amicably, and her birthday was in fact only two days away. “How did Lucius propose to you?”

Narcissa at once straightened, her right-hand hovering over her left as pale fingers traced a golden engraved band. “You should know already; he did it the same way any other pureblood wizard would,” she said with an air of superiority. “He asked my father’s permission first, and then when he said yes, Lucius asked me to marry him. Though I should say that if you go out to ask Louis Delacour for his daughter’s hand, he might kill you.”

“How encouraging,” Barty sighed, rolling his eyes at the thought. “Though it seems to me that you would find that most amusing.”

“The thought never crossed my mind,” Narcissa brushed the comment off easily. “But if you’re going to propose to her, don’t do it out of the blue. Lucius proposed to me in the gardens during my graduation party, away from everyone’s eyes. The night was warm, and the way the moon reflected onto the fountain, well, it was all very _romantic_.”

Emphasis on the word romantic, Barty heard very clearly and nodded his head. “Any suggestions?” he asked.

“Plan something nice for her,” Narcissa offered after a second’s thought. “If you ask her to marry you right out of nowhere, she’s not going to respond the way you want. Be nice to her, explain your reasons and though you probably don’t regret it, apologize for giving her that mark. Show her that you care.”

“It wasn’t my idea to give her the mark,” he shot back bitterly. “She wasn’t supposed to get involved in any of this. I won’t go against the Dark Lord, but at least this way I can ensure her safety. It’s not like I can let her go after all of this.”

The sight of Fleur curled up and sobbing again flashed to the front of his mind. His chest tightened at the unwelcome intrusion. He didn’t have many regrets in life but branding her was one of them. The regret lingered in his mouth like a bad after taste, but there was nothing that could be done about it. Branding her went right next to not being able to save Regulus, and not being able to give his mother a better goodbye.

The dead couldn’t talk, but there were times he wished he could hear her voice again. Somehow, he could remember what she looked like. He recall the rose perfume she always wore and the tired way she smiled. Her quick wit when she spoke; when she was feeling well enough to think of a sarcastic comment. She was a politician’s wife, but she was no trophy. His father loved her, and Barty couldn’t help but envy her for the love he never received from him.

Well, that was in the past. Barty shoved the dark thoughts back, returning to the present. He didn’t need a dead man’s love or approval. He’d done unspeakable, terrible things, but he did so for a future greater than himself. He had a new family. His true family, and soon, he would have a wife of his own who was beautiful, clever, and so fiery he didn’t ever want to temper her if he could help it.

The future was dark and long, but as long as she was with him, he could walk down it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, Fleur is going to totally take a marriage proposal from her stalker, kidnapper, rapist and bane of her existence well. Jesus Barty, just throw yourself back into Azkaban already. In fact, CrystalMountain you can go ahead and wrangle his neck! Here you go! *shoves Barty* and anyone else who would like to wrangle him here can do so. Also #hateVoldemort. 
> 
> Of course, I think you guys know by now that I absolutely do not condone any of his actions. This is all fiction, but these are situations that people deal with, and thought I won't go into specifics, some of which that I have gone through. You guys are awesome and thanks again for further helping me expand this universe ^^
> 
> I promise guys, we will be seeing our potion's master in upcoming chapters! Just be patient! I think it'll be in the chapter after the next one, as I am still working out some dialogue and other shit. It will be written in Apolline's p.o.v, so be ready for that! Also, we will be seeing Bellatrix soon! I plan on writing in her p.o.v for the escape, and her relationship with Voldy here is probably at the very least going to be subtle. Well, as subtle as Bellatrix can be. It's not her strong suit, is it? Oh, and don't worry guys, Fleur is not going to follow in her footsteps. I think the HP universe can only have one Bellatrix Lestrange. Still can't wait to introduce the Azkaban gang to you all (that's their name now; it's decided. Fight me).
> 
> I think that's it for now, so comment if you'd like! I'll see you guys in the next week, or possibly the one after that because this next chapter is going to be long. A lot happens that I'm not sure you guys will be prepared for, so hopefully it will be entertaining if not somewhat intriguing. Thanks again, stay safe out there, and see you all next time!


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I hope you all are doing well and staying safe out there! This chapter is all ready and well, I'm sure her reaction will be as well as expected. Thanks for all the support so far, so I'll keep this short! 
> 
> Also, since I'm thinking of getting parts of this story commissioned, I have a few artists I'm thinking about, but if you have suggestions for artists, let me know and I'll check them out! 
> 
> TW: There is some violence, not explicit, but there in case. Also there is sex, so be warned.

Birthdays were supposed to be a happy occasion. But Fleur could only stare at her own reflection in the bathroom mirror, reflecting on the past. Birthdays were supposed to be spent with families and friends. If she were at home, she would’ve had a small party with her closest friends and Gabrielle. This year she was supposed to have a grand party commemorating her graduation from school. She was supposed to wear a pretty dress and be the center of everyone’s attention. She had been dreaming about that party for years, and now, it seemed like more of a distant dream.

Last year, Fleur and her best friends Manon and Sabine had snuck out to the lake surrounding their school. They shared a bottle of chocolate liqueur and laughed at the mermaids showing off for them. They sat underneath the starry sky, knowing that it would be one of the last moments they spent time with another for a long time. Both Fleur and Sabine had decided to go through with the Triwizard Tournament while Manon decided to pursue her studies in potions. They hugged and cried before leaving for Britain, vowing to meet up once it was all over. Fleur just never knew it would be a forever goodbye.

Fleur sighed and set the brush down on the counter. She stared into the mirror, and her reflection stared back with the same expression of mournfulness. Her hair was finally beginning to look healthy again, and the silver glow around her was steadily returning. More like wisps of smoke above her skin but continuing to become more solid as her magical core healed. She didn’t hurt any more, nor did she feel so tired. But it still didn’t change how miserable she felt.

Idly, her fingers wrapped around her left wrist. Carefully concealed by bandages, the dark mark was hidden from sight. It’d been weeks since she’d gazed upon it. Upon returning to her prison, Barty wrapped it up without a word. Neither of them had spoken about the incident, not even after three weeks.

Actually, Fleur thought with a frown, they hadn’t really spoken in such a long time. She was angry, and sad, but more than any of those feelings, she was terrified. After the incident, she didn’t want him anywhere near her; she didn’t want him touching or even speaking to her. Whenever she saw him she wanted to throttle him so hard till he bled. She wanted to scream at him, to make him feel just as terrible as she felt all the time now.

Still, she couldn't deny it was rather lonely. As angry as she was with him, and he was certainly acting more cautiously around her, it didn’t do much to help her escape her thoughts. They plagued her mind. When would the Dark Lord call for her? Who was the next innocent victim she would be forced to kill? How much further would she be dragged into this world?

An ache she felt much deeper than anything. The loneliness gnawed at her core, but she bit it back with each day. She could speak to Winky, but at the moment, she couldn’t trust the house-elf. Anything she said would be reported to Barty. She didn’t want to be near him, or even speak to him right now. Or at least, she didn’t anyway. It didn’t change how angry she was with him, but weeks of silence hadn’t changed anything.

If anything, it only made things more tense.

Barty had left earlier that morning without so much as a word. She highly doubted he didn’t know what today was, but to not even receive a “Happy birthday,” was more than a little concerning. Was he growing bored with her? They hadn’t really spoken or done any of, well, _that_ since leaving Russia. She figured if he were growing tired of her, he would have tossed her aside already. Wouldn’t he?

Fleur tossed her head, shaking those thoughts aside. It was early afternoon now, and while she’d just eaten a solitary lunch, she made her way back down the stairs. She vaguely heard Winky cleaning in the parlor, so she managed to sneak past without being detected.

It was quiet, she noted as she stepped inside the kitchen. All the dishes were dried and put away, and not a speck of dirt was on the counters. She didn’t know how old Winky was, but she had the feeling that she was older than she appeared, considering how long she’d been working for the Crouch family. Yet despite her age, she certainly did not slack off on her responsibilities.

Humming quietly to herself, Fleur reached for the items she scanned the cabinets for. The tea selection had widened extensively, and she had the feeling that Barty was behind this. There was the tea she was familiar with, chamomile, and she immediately reached for it. She opened the container, inhaling the sweet, herbaceous scents. It reminded her of home, but that only brought a stab of pain to her chest.

She took out the kettle, added the water and set it upon the stove. It would take at least ten minutes for it to steep, so she took a seat on one of the kitchen stools. She played with the handle of the cup, the strainer sitting above it holding the yellowish-brown leaves. It wasn’t much of a birthday so far, but the small reminder of home helped with the homesickness. Not by much, but the fresh smell the leaves were giving off made her sigh.

“‘Appy birthday to me, ‘appy birthday to me,” Fleur sang to herself softly, leaning her chin down to sit on her hand. Some birthday this was turning out to be.

Abruptly, she stood and made her way to the spice cabinet. It wouldn’t do much good sitting here and feeling sorry for herself. It was beginning to grow tiresome, and it didn’t change what had happened. So, she decided to think about something else. The thought occurred to her that her grand-maman would always prepare her tea with the merest hints of vanilla. If she could find some, then perhaps it would make her feel a little closer to home. 

The spice cabinet, crammed full of various jars, were easily parted as Fleur took out the various items. Saffron, ginger, cloves, and multiple others she didn’t recognize immediately. As much as her English had improved, it didn’t mean she knew every word and had to stare at some of the spices for a long time, wondering what they were. 

She did find the vanilla on the second shelf of the cabinet, and when she took it out, her arm knocked over a small blue box with white writing. It fell to the floor with a soft thunk, and without thinking, she reached down to pick it up. She studied it carefully, turning it over in her hands, eyes widening. On the cover of the box was a witch, smiling broadly and showcasing the cup of tea in her hand. Upon opening the box, she took in the minty scents. It all clicked. The sparkling white writing advertised the product in her hand, and the anger that had been dulled rose tenfold.

**Pennyroyal! In the mood but not wanting to risk it? Contraception charms not working? Then pennyroyal is the product for any witch wanting to be responsible and have fun at the same time!**

The box landing on the ground echoed in her ears loudly. Rage boiled in her veins at the very thought of what he’d done. It all made sense now, why he never wanted to use condoms. Had he been slipping this into her tea the entire time? Why would a grown wizard keep this sort of product if they weren’t active? 

“Oh no!”

Fleur whirled around to see Winky standing behind her, face pale at the sight of the box on the floor. Winky pressed her hands to her face, as if she had committed a terrible crime. “Mistress isn’t supposed to know about this! Master Barty tells Winky not to tell Mistress! Oh, Winky is bad! Winky is in so much trouble!”

“Winky,” Fleur started, her voice unnaturally stiff. Winky gulped at the sound of her firm tone, large brown eyes petrified at the sound. “Winky, has Barty been putting this in my tea?”

Her hesitation was all Fleur needed to know that he had. The kettle on the stove hissed, but she ignored it. She expected rage, or fury to flood over her. Yet, there was nothing. Oh, she was still angry, however, what good would flying into a rage do? Before her, Winky twisted her hands nervously.

“Winky isn’t supposed to say,” the house-elf whimpered. “Master Barty knows best, and he is only looking after Mistress. Master Barty loves Mistress, and only wants what is best for her.”

Fleur sighed, shaking her head. Winky trembled before her, eyes staring up at her with unshed tears. “Winky is sorry if Mistress is upset with Winky; Winky knows she is bad for making Mistress angry,” Winky’s voice wobbled, as though on the verge of crying. “Winky will do better to make Mistress happy. Winky only wants to be a good house-elf and serve Winky’s family!”

Fleur stared at the creature in horror. “Non, Winky,” she knelt down, forcing a fake smile on her face. “I am not mad at you. I am sorry that you thought I was. I am only surprised to see this; that is all. I promise that I am not upset with you.”

That last part wasn’t a lie. She understood the nature of house-elves, and that even if Winky didn’t agree with Barty’s actions, there wasn’t much she could do about it. Becoming angry with Winky wouldn’t solve her problems. If anything, it would just make Fleur feel worse. So, she swallowed her anger down and did her best to comfort Winky. She took the house-elf’s hands and squeezed them reassuringly.

“Do you know why Barty decided to give this to me?” she asked gently, as the nervousness began to fade from those large brown eyes. 

“Master Barty loves Mistress very much,” Winky said confidently, staring up at Fleur soulfully. “Master Barty knows Mistress isn’t ready for a baby, so Master Barty doesn’t want to make Mistress uncomfortable.”

Fleur sat in stunned silence. Uncomfortable. He was worried about making her uncomfortable? After all that had happened in the months she’d been here, this was what he was worried about. Except, the more she thought about it, this wasn’t all that surprising. In some way, it was reassuring that they were on the same page. He clearly didn’t want a baby, and she certainly didn’t want his baby. Fleur wanted children, but the thought of having _his_ children was enough to keep her quiet.

“Master Barty loves Mistress very much,” Winky spoke once more, and a smile grew on her face. “Just like how Master Crouch loved Mistress Crouch.”

Well, if they were here, Fleur held absolutely no doubt they would be disgusted. Especially Mr. Crouch, who did not even want the world to know his son was still alive.

“Yes, ‘e does, doesn’t ‘e?” Fleur asked, trying to sound cheerful.

“Master Barty does!” Winky beamed, as if proud that she had properly conveyed this fact. “Master Barty loves Mistress so much he is preparing a birthday dinner for-”

Winky immediately clapped her hands over her mouth, eyes widening. “Oh no!” Winky started through her concealed mouth. “Mistress isn’t supposed to know! Winky is not supposed to say anything! Oh, Master Barty will be so upset with Winky when he finds out…”

“It’s fine, Winky,” Fleur interrupted quickly, seeing the crestfallen look that befell her. “It is okay, do not punish yourself. I will pretend to be surprised and we will keep this secret between us. Okay? Do not be too ‘ard on yourself, Winky.”

Winky nodded, even if she still looked to be a bit unsure. “Master Barty wants to do something nice for Mistress. Master Barty knows that Mistress has been unwell, so he just wants to make Mistress happy.”

He had no one to blame but himself, Fleur thought absently. Still, a birthday dinner would force them to communicate again. If this were his way to make things up to her, it would not change what happened. It would not change that he branded her against her will. However, the weeks of endless silence and what might be considered “small talk”, was draining. If this forced him to grovel, well, she wasn’t going to stop him. Nor was she going to deny that actually having someone, even if it were someone she despised, to talk to would be sort of nice.

“Tell me, Winky,” Fleur began carefully. “What time is this dinner going to be?”

“At seven-thirty,” Winky said cheerfully. “Master Barty is out getting things ready for Mistress.”

So, that explained where he went. Fleur stood, straightening her shoulders. “Winky,” she started, immediately catching the elf’s attention. “Winky, I am going to be upstairs in my room getting ready. If you need me, I will be there.”

“Of course, Mistress,” Winky bowed slightly. “Winky will be here if Mistress should need anything.”

With a smile, Fleur nodded, all thoughts of early afternoon tea abandoned. She took off in the direction for her room, with only one thought on her mind. If Barty thought he could take her by surprise, he had another thing coming. This was _her_ birthday. If anyone was going to control anything about it, it was her.

All she needed was a few hours of preparation.

~

Fleur stared at her reflection in the mirror, stroking the necklace Barty had given her nearly two months ago. Her hair fanned behind her in a low ponytail, one curl hanging delicately over her face. There were times, back before she’d been dragged into hell, that she wished her hair could curl easily. But veela hair was impossibly stubborn and curling it had taken hours. However, since her hair still wasn’t fully back to its usual shine, it yielded to the heat from the curlers.

Months ago, she would never have even done this. If her birthday were in July or August, she would have stared stubbornly into the mirror, refusing to even anywhere near him. Now, things had changed. She wasn’t the same person she was when she first arrived here. She’d seen so much; done so much that she couldn’t walk away from. She learned she could hate and still need someone at the same time. Pride only got her into trouble.

Even still, the road to hell was not an easy walk for most people, especially her. The devil had come to her in the shape of a man, and there was no choice but to let him guide her if she wanted to make it out of this war alive. That didn’t mean though she was going to let him have all the power.

Fleur inspected herself once more, smoothing down the dress. Earlier, Winky had to help her lace up the corset in the back of the dress, but this was the one she’d been most eager to wear. The ice blue dress accentuated her deep blue eyes. The off the shoulder sleeves hung at her forearms delicately, and it sat rather flatteringly against her curves. In a way, she felt like she was going into battle and this was her armor. She wasn’t going to let his lingering gaze stop her from looking beautiful on her birthday.

Barty had returned a while ago, but Fleur still hadn’t seen him yet. Whatever he was doing downstairs was a mystery to her. Yet, she couldn’t stay in this room any longer. It was five minutes till seven-thirty, and he would come find her soon. Better for her to have the higher ground instead of being taken by surprise.

Squaring her shoulders back, Fleur turned on her heel and slowly stepped out of their bedroom. At the top of the stairs, she descended down with air of regality that came easily to her. She noticed him at the bottom, one foot on the first step and staring at her with surprise. She smiled internally, reveling in catching him off guard.

“You’re beautiful,” Barty said once she reached the end of the stairs. He took her hand into his, caressing the knuckles carefully.

“Thank you,” as much as she wanted to tear her hand from his, she didn’t, and faked a smile instead. “So, where ‘ave you been?”

Barty paused, clearly not expecting that question. She didn’t entirely blame him. After weeks of barely speaking to each other, the sudden interest in his whereabouts was more than a little surprising. However, he just smirked slightly and took her into his arm.

“Nowhere you’d be interested in,” he lied, knowing full well that she was. “I’ve just been…out.”

His other hand fiddled with the pocket of his suit jacket, and Fleur finally noticed that he had cleaned up as well. Nothing overly formal, but his hair was slicked to give more volume to his right side and his clothes were freshly pressed. Whether he was aware that she knew what he had been planning, it didn’t matter.

Outside of the house there was a gazebo that hadn’t been used once since arriving at the prison. Yet, it’d been cleaned up in the hours before and lit with fairy lights that dangled around the roof. A table for two had been set up, adorned with two tall candles and if this were anyone else, Fleur would have absolutely loved it.

That being said, the hardened anger inside shifted slightly. It did look nice; she couldn’t deny that. Except when that thought crossed her mind, she immediately pushed it back. Now was not the time to get distracted, not when she was angry with him.

Barty pushed a chair out for her, as if he were some proper gentlemen who didn’t kidnap and rape women, and despite having to bite her cheek she sat down. He took the seat across from her, waving his wand to pour the bottle of red wine into their glasses.

“Happy birthday, darling,” Barty said, raising his glass to her.

And though she wanted nothing more than to throw it at him, she didn’t. She simply nodded, giving her own glass a slight tilt in his direction and took a sip. It didn’t taste bad, but she preferred white wine to red wine. It was old, she noted, though she didn’t know the age. Or how expensive it probably was.

Dinner was mostly silent, with not much being said. She took a bite of chicken, and a pang of homesickness washed over before she could stop it. Simmered in apple cider, it was a dish she enjoyed having at home, and the fact she was having it here in this hell was almost surreal. He had clearly planned an entire French dinner, selecting her favorite dishes as though trying to earn his way back into her good graces. She nearly sneered at the thought.

Except, she noticed as the continued to cut her food, he was nervous. Conversation was almost non-existent with how he kept glancing around him or looking at her as though he wanted to ask something but refrained from saying it. She found it rather annoying, but she wasn’t going to show that. She had the feeling it was something important. Yet, what could that be?

If it were something related to the Dark Lord, then wouldn’t he have said something? She blanched at the thought of him, her appetite now lost, and she pushed her plate aside. Barty eyed her, the contents of his plate nearly gone at this point.

“Not hungry?” he asked, and she loathed the concern she heard in his voice.

“Non,” she shook her head. “I am full.”

It wasn’t that she was full, far from it, but any thoughts of his master were enough to put her off anything. Not even the cake Winky brought out, though it looked delicious, was enough to bring her appetite back. Barty didn’t look like he believed her, but he didn’t press that issue further, thankfully.

Fleur frowned. This whole night was proving to be rather, well, strange. Perhaps Winky had told him that she found the birth control in the cabinet. If that were the case, then wouldn’t he have confronted her already? Wouldn’t Winky have been punished?

He must have noticed her staring, for he set his fork and knife down, observing her carefully. “Problem?” he asked.

“Yes,” well, it wouldn’t do good to beat around the bush now, would it? “You are acting strange. Like you are afraid of something. What is it?”

“There’s nothing wrong,” Barty lied, shaking his head. “I promise, darling, that everything is ok-”

“I know about the pennyroyal.”

She interrupted, and the casual nonchalance on his face quickly fell away. His eyes darkened to near black, and from nearby she heard Winky gasp. “What?” he asked, his voice not as light as before, and his gaze darted in the direction his house-elf.

“I know you ‘ave been putting it in my tea,” Fleur tilted her chin up defiantly. “I found it earlier today. Did you think I would not find out?”

But Barty wasn’t looking at her anymore. Instead, his gaze was fixed on Winky’s shaking form, still holding the cake with her trembling hands. Fleur paled, at once realizing she had made a mistake. “It is not Winky’s fault,” she cut in, coming to the elf’s defense. “I found it, not ‘er! There is no need to get mad at Winky.”

“Stay out of this,” Barty shot towards her, his attention still on his servant. “Winky, go your room. I will deal with you later.”

Winky bowed her head in shame. “Yes, Master Barty.”

With a snap of her fingers, she was gone. Fleur pushed her chair back at once, with every intention of going after the house-elf. She cursed herself for speaking out so suddenly, and now, Winky was going to get hurt. Why, oh why, had she said anything? The anger had almost completely washed away, parts of it still clawing at her chest, but now fear was coursing through her. What would he do to her? If it was anyone’s fault, it was his! He had decided to drug her tea, not Winky. How was it fair that she should be punished?

She hadn’t taken one step down the gazebo’s steps when a hand snagged around her wrist. Barty pulled her back to him, eyes still dark with anger. She yanked her wrist away from him, stepping away in fear of her own safety.

“Before you say anything,” Barty began, taking a deep breath to control himself. “I only did it for your own interests. You wanted protection? Well, that was protection.”

“My protection? Are you serious? You should ‘ave told me!” Fleur snapped, the anger coming back in raw wave of unconstrained fury. “’Ow do you even think I can trust you after this? If you think I will get over this-”

“You will,” Barty said immediately, cutting her off. “Because you need me.”

She glared at him, and he glared at her back with the same intensity. She backed away, bumping up against the edge of the table. Her elbows brushed up against the vase of flowers on the table, the soft petals startling her with their smoothness.

“I might need you,” she admitted in almost a whisper. “But this doesn’t excuse what you ‘ave done. What you ‘ave done and forced me to do. I cannot serve ‘im, Barty. It’s killing me, having this mark. Killing me! You ‘ave no idea what this is like!”

“Don’t I?” Barty asked, taking a step towards her. “You think I wanted to give it to you? I never wanted this for you! All I want is your love; all that you are, not for you to serve him. But what’s done is done and you can’t deny the Dark Lord’s wishes.”

“I would rather die than serve ‘im,” Fleur snarled, though every logical part that wanted to live screamed at her. “’E can kill me ‘imself, but that would be a blessing to me if it meant that I could get away from you!”

Barty stared at her, taken aback by her words. He shook his head, as if ridding his mind of what she just said. “You don’t mean that darling, I know you don’t,” he paused, hand digging into his pocket. “I know you’re upset with me. I don’t blame you, but if you would let me, I can make things better.”

She looked at him with disbelief. “’Ow?” she questioned, venom dripping in her voice. “By removing this curse off of me?”

“No,” he smiled, almost sadly, and took out a small black velvet box. It nearly burned into his hand at her fixed gaze, the weight of reality nearly sinking into her. Barty opened it, exposing the gem sat inside a golden band glittered, catching the light of the fairy lights. Barty held it towards her. “But I can ensure your safety.”

He knelt down on one knee, and Fleur nearly felt sick at the very sight of him staring up at her adoringly. “Fleur Isabelle Delacour,” he started, the box still extended to her. “Will do me the honor of marrying me?”

Fleur’s mouth went dry. “Marry you?” she asked, not even sure what she could say. “Marry you?”

“Marry me,” he repeated, as though she hadn’t heard him. “If you marry me, if you take my name, I can protect you better. If you bind yourself to me, as the veela in the past did-”

Fleur’s jaw nearly dropped, and it suddenly clicked. Her grand-maman had told of her soul bonds before, how when veela married one another the past, they would perform a soul bond. They weren’t practiced anymore; the last one hadn’t been performed in over a hundred years, though she didn’t know why. How Barty had found out about them, she had no idea, but the thought left a sick feeling.

“You want to soul bond,” she practically whispered, blinking her eyes as though this were some awful ream. “You want to soul bond with me. Do you even ‘ear yourself? You think I would even accept to bind myself to you?”

“The Dark Lord’s war is just beginning,” Barty dared utter the name, taking note of how she flinched. “The Death Eaters still in Azkaban? They are much worse than I, or the others. You think they would hesitate on taking their frustrations out on you?”

He paused, taking a sigh, and pressed forward. “But if you marry me, become my wife, and bear my name, that will offer you some protection from them. It would not do for them to attack another Death Eater’s spouse. It goes against all our politics and would be an open declaration of war against each other. If we are bound, I can protect you even more. If you were ever in danger, I would know. All I want to do is keep you safe, darling. That’s all I want.”

Fleur could not even find the words to speak. His knees must have hurt from kneeling for this long, but she didn’t care. “Non,” she finally said, her lower back continuing to bump up against the table as she kept trying to step back. “Non, I will not marry you.”

“Think about it,” Barty said firmly. “I love you, and I want to make sure you are safe. Things have been set in motion that cannot be undone. I can only protect you so much now, but if we marry, it makes our bond more permanent.”

Permanent. The word had her eyes go wide. “Non,” she replied again, even harsher. “Non, I will not do it. Stop asking me! Just stop!”

He stood then, taking a deep sigh, and narrowed his eyes. “Then allow me to rephrase then. You will do me the honor of becoming my lawfully wedded wife.”

He was crowding into her space, taking the ring out of its box. In a flash, she took it from him and threw it over his shoulder to the darkness of the back garden. He glared at her, taking his wand to retrieve it back. That was his first mistake. Her hands wrapped around the vase, and when his back was turned, she threw it over his head. He didn’t crumple to the floor, though a few trickles of blood fell down his temple. He groaned, hands removing pieces of glass from his hair. His eyes following her retreating form as she stormed into the house.

Oh, he was angry all right, but that was fine. Fleur was all too aware that he would be close behind, but she walked back in without a look back. Although her heart slammed in panic, reminding her of what happened the last time she had made him angry. Yet something joyful shimmered through her veins, a spark of satisfaction. The past few weeks had been nothing but silence, but the merest hint of any action was enough to send her reeling.

She was near the stairs when a hand yanked her back. She wheeled around at the sudden familiar press on her arm and slapped him across the face. The imprint of her hand was stark against his pale flesh bloomed satisfyingly angry. He himself had never done the same to her, but with how angry he was, she wondered if that would change. His hands gripped her shoulders tightly, holding her up against the wall near the railing. They were pressed so tightly together she could feel the beating of his heart, the swelling of his lungs with each breath.

“That wasn’t nice,” Barty hissed, and she noticed the bleeding against his temple had stopped. “But you don’t even feel sorry, do you?”

“Not at all,” Fleur snapped back, tilting her chin up haughtily. “After what you just tried to do, you deserved it!”

“I am trying to save you!” he emphasized, almost desperately. “I can’t lose you. I don’t want to even think of you disappearing again. You are mine, and just the same, I am yours. Why can’t you just see that?”

The adrenaline was out of control, Fleur thought as she tried to shake out of his grasp. It crawled along her skin, sending electric shivers as he pressed her even further against the wall. “Because I ‘ate you!” she growled, still trying to shove him. “I don’t care if you feel bad or do not, I will never stop ‘ating you!”

“You don’t hate me that much, do you?” Barty asked, so close to her face that his lips brushed against her ear. “If you hate me so much, then you wouldn’t need me. You need me, and I need you. We are two parts of the same whole, you and me. You cannot exist without me, not now. There is no escaping from your fate, darling.”

“I will never stop ‘ating you.”

“And I will never let you go. Because I love you.”

In one moment, all the anger and fear of the past months and weeks exploded. Those words took her back to when she had woken out of her magic induced coma, where her epiphany had made her realize that she couldn’t survive this war without him. Then she’d been branded; been made a tool for the Dark Lord to use when he wished. She’d been so angry, eager to forget the words she’d said to Barty. To the realization she had made to herself.

“I am scared,” she confessed, almost to herself than to him. She stopped pushing him away, her fingers now grasping the soft material of his jacket. She held him to her, as unshed tears burned in her eyes. “Because if I don’t ‘ate you, then I might…might…love you. And I can’t do that, not with all that you ‘ave done to me.”

It was the truth; one she had been refusing to ignore for so long. He held her tightly, the feel of his touch like sparks against her skin. It had been so long since she’d had contact with anyone. The angry silence and loneliness was unbearable. She was used to being surrounded by friends and family, and the captivity had thrust her into a new environment she had to navigate through. Originally she thought she could do it herself, but she was wrong. So once more, and she considered herself a fool for trying to pretend it didn’t exist, she accepted her fate.

There was a warmth forming in her chest, their close proximity causing her head to spin. Perhaps it was the wine, or the lack of really any contact for weeks. She pressed him closer to her, gooseflesh rising as his hands trailed down her arms. They settled on her waist, dangerously close to her hips and pulled her flush against him. His dark eyes were black with desire for her, replacing the anger. She wet her lips tentatively, lips suddenly dry. He watched the movement, inching towards her face slowly. His grip on her still as tight as before, as though he feared she would slip through his fingers like water.

She brushed her lips to his firmly, and he returned it with the same pent up frustration.

It was almost surreal, she thought as she closed her eyes. She didn’t want to be near him, half of her wanted him to get as far away as possible while the other half couldn’t get him closer enough. A year ago, if someone told her she would be kissing a known Death Eater, she would have laughed in their faces. Yet here she was, kissing him like she couldn’t get enough.

His hands ran down her body, teeth nibbling gently down on her lower lip. Tugging slightly, asking for entrance. He gasped when she reached up and yanked hard on his dark hair, further deepening their kiss. He rubbed small circles on her upper thighs, practically holding her body up with his, and though the dress prevented her from parting her legs too far, his long fingers still pressed softly against her inner thighs. She clung to his neck, unsure of footing and mind growing dizzy with cloudy thoughts.

He released her lips, panting against her cheek. She shuddered when his fingers reached between her legs to see what they could reach. Though they could not reach inside, he lightly traced the outer folds still covered by the fabric of the dress. A gasp escaped her, warmth spreading down her chest to collect down to her covered womanhood. She moaned when his teeth caught her ear lobe, her dress suddenly too heavy on her body.

He ground his hips against hers and he let out a groan when her nails dug into the skin of his neck. “Fuck,” he groaned, lips leaving a tingling trail down her neck. “Say yes, darling. Say you’ll marry me.”

“Non,” she half murmured at the pleasant feeling of his lips suckling a deep purple bruise on the crook of her neck. “I will not marry you.”

Without warning, he hoisted her up into his arms to lead her up the stairs. She protested, twisting his grasp to face him. His black eyes burned with desire. Their lips met again in a rough kiss halfway up the stairs, teeth clacking and her dress disheveled. It had lowered enough that her breasts were in danger of spilling out. The cool air drastic against her now hardened nipples, chest heaving from all the deep kissing.

It seemed to take forever to reach the room. When he finally set her down, he set to work undoing the dress’s corset back. His lips brushed her ear, breathlessly whispering to her. “Marry me,” he prompted again, his fingers impatiently untying the laces. “Come on, _ma princesse_ , marry me.”

“Non,” she said once more, tossing her head. “I will not marry you.”

His lips were attacking her neck again, another bruise beginning to form where his teeth nibbled onto her skin. The dress started becoming looser against her skin, until finally, it fell to the floor in a pile at her feet. He hooked around the hair tie holding her hair in the ponytail, allowing the curls to spill out. Now, she stood clad only in her knickers, his hands wrapping around her midsection to press her closer.

“Would it be so bad, being married to me?” Barty inquired, voice husky with lust. “Your soul connected to my soul. More intimate than a simple ring, really.”

“I still say no,” Fleur replied, the back of her head resting on his shoulder. “I will not marry you.”

“Then I’ll have to get you to change your mind,” he grunted as though accepting a challenge. “You will marry me.”

Before she could even get a word out, he pushed her onto the bed. His gaze locked onto hers as he threw off his jacket, throwing it to the floor with her dress. She watched him undress with hooded eyes, absolutely aware of how her skin tingled and the slickness that sat hot against her vaginal lips.

She hated him, that had not changed, but she needed this. She wanted to wring his neck and kiss him at the same time. Her thoughts were out of control, she noted solemnly. She wanted to feel alive, and the need for someone to be near her was overwhelming. Yet along her very soul was the sliver of him that had splintered its way in. It called for him to get near her; to be inside her. As much as she hated him, she couldn’t say that he was entirely wrong. They were connected. Even since he had stolen her away from the maze, their fates were entwined.

“Say you’ll marry me,” Barty said again, capturing her lips before she could say anything.

She shook her head, and cold air immediately hit her lower body. Her knickers slipped down her body, falling to the floor and leaving them both completely exposed. She watched him crawl up to her, her head resting against the pillows. Her sealed lower lips clenched at the sight of him, remembering what was to come. His arms rested at either side of her head, eyes locking to hers. Her hands wrapped around the back of his neck, tugging at the hair there.

Her legs immediately wrapped around his narrow waist, and he pushed his way in. Slowly, his cock making her vaginal walls twitch around as they adjusted. The tip of his cock nudged its way in. Though not deliberately slow, he didn’t waste time in burying himself into her. She gave loud gasp at one hard thrust that sent her reeling, her grip on him tightening.

He moved steadily, each movement inside of her purposeful in finding that spot that sent her reeling. His pace picked up, the firmness of his stomach brushing against hers. She tightened her legs around his waist, surprising him by taking advantage of their positions so that she ended up on top. She panted, grinding her hips downwards to take more of him in, his hips rolling up to meet hers. His fingers swiftly reached for her clit, rubbing slow circles around it only to have it harden under his calloused fingers.

“Fuck,” Barty groaned when Fleur leaned down, her hands resting on his chest so that his cock brushed up against her pulsating clit. His lips brushed up against hers. “Marry me, darling.”

“Non,” she ground on, thrusting down on him particularly hard. “I will not marry you.”

She cried out in surprise when he flipped her over. She let out a high-pitched moan as his hips slammed forward, burying himself to the hilt. His hips rested fully on hers, leaving no space between them. Completely aware of his hard cock against her warm insides. The headboard crashed against the wall, and Fleur found she didn’t care if anyone heard how loud they were being. His right arm pulled her close, his left gripping the board to steady himself.

He leaned down, panting against her cheek. Kissing, mouthing at the flesh as he fucked his way into her. “Darling,” his teeth lightly grazed her jaw before his lips kissed where he had nipped. “I love you so much. Won’t you say yes?”

“Non,” she moaned, her walls tightening around him as if to engulf all of him in. “Non.’

Her nerves were a lit with fire. It burned pleasantly down her body, the heat of her arousal flaring when tongue flicked near her ear. She pulled him tighter to her, hands running through his dark hair. He was busy mouthing the corner of her jaw and cheek, teasing near her ear lobe. She spasmed around him, her legs twitching as she felt her release coming close.

“Oh…oh…” were the only words that she could seem to say, staring up at the black silk of the canopy bed’s covering. “Oh…fuck!”

The waves of her orgasm washed over her, and she tightened even more around him. He wasn’t far off, his thrusts becoming more erratic and harsher. The headboard slammed against the wall especially hard when he came with a start inside of her. Her body shook from the aftermath, legs twitching around his waist. Her walls milked every bit of him, taking his dense semen into her. Bits of her release and his slipped out her slowly.

He collapsed against her, legs entwined and his cock still inside her. He brushed the loose curl out of her face. “I love you,” he lazily kissed her, lingering there when he continued. “All I want to do is keep you safe. Why won’t you let me protect you?”

Through the post-coital haze, she blinked. “Every time you want to protect me, I only end up in more trouble,” she left the part out that some of that trouble might have been her own pride’s doing, but she could see in his dark eyes that he knew.

“There’s some truth in that, I can’t deny it,” he sighed, and his softened cock slipped out of her. He rolled over to lay next to her. “And that is my fault. I am sorry that I had to mark you. But we can’t change that, darling. But I want to make it up to you.”

She narrowed her eyes at the implication. “By marrying me?” she asked and rolled over on her right side to face him. “To perform a soul bond? You think that will make up for all that ‘as ‘appened since Macnair’s death.”

“I don’t want you to die,” the earnestness in his voice made her nearly flinch. He pressed closer, his arm reaching to wrap around her. “You make me feel alive, darling. I cannot sit by and let more happen to you. Not when I have the power to stop that. If you marry me, they won’t be able to touch you. Not without consequences.”

“You think Bellatrix Lestrange, or ‘er husband would torture me? Kill me?” she inquired, her hands reaching up to rest on his chest. “I would think they would ‘ave their own business to attend to.”

“I’ve been around them; I know what they’re like,” Barty said darkly. “As much as I have respect for their abilities, they would not hesitate to hurt you if the opportunity arose. You think I am bad? Those in Azkaban are worse, much worse. They would not see you the way I do. They would see you as entertainment; hunt you for sport if they could. I’ve seen it before.”

She froze, and she searched his face for the lie. But she could not find it. There was nothing humorous in his eyes, that only burned dark as the thought of his fellow imprisoned Death Eaters. “What ‘appened?” she murmured. “Since you ‘ave seen it before.”

Barty sighed. “Rabastan Lestrange and his brother, Rodolphus, used to kidnap muggles. Men, women, they didn’t care. They would leave them out in the woods, chasing them as they would run blind in the dark. They would include others in the sport, Rowle, Jugson, a few others. Even Bellatrix partook in it. I never participated, but the Aurors and muggle police would find the mangled bodies. The Dark Lord thought it all amusing, but naturally, that sort of behavior is beneath him.”

Fleur shivered at the thought. Barty, thinking that she was cold, pulled her to his chest. He stroked her hair, lost in his own thoughts. “And you think marrying me would stop them from doing that?” she asked cautiously. “That just because I would have your name that they wouldn’t do that?”

“Our views on what makes a marriage pure differs from family to family, but unless something bad happened, they wouldn’t do anything untoward you. They won’t respect you; they might not even speak to you, but they won’t do anything. It’s a bit of an unspoken agreement that unless challenged, we won’t go against each other.”

She thought hard. Of course the Lestrange’s and a few other families wouldn’t even consider her human. Yet these were the families that practiced inbreeding due to how small the Pureblood families were becoming. Their sanity was questionable, just as questionable as the man lying next to her. Still, and she pursed her lips.

“Does the Dark Lord know what you are doing?” she started quietly. “Or ‘ave you not told ‘im?”

“He knows,” Barty answered easily. “He’s blessed it.”

Blessed it, Fleur’s stomach rolled at the thought. She frowned, narrowing her eyes at him. “Macnair told me that you cannot marry me. That my status is unworthy and that you would ‘ave to marry a Pureblood witch.”

Barty raised his eyes. “And you believe anything he’s said?” he shook his head, allowing a small grin. “While technically you are a half breed, there’s no muggle blood in you, is there? The rest of you is as pure as I am. Before I originally thought marrying you would only be a fantasy, considering how many people have thrown the idea about. Yet when I asked my master, he sounded intrigued by the idea of soul bond.”

“I still ‘ave not agreed,” Fleur countered. “Marrying you, after all you ‘ave done. I am not sure I can.”

Barty frowned. “This is all for you, darling. Everything I do is for you, to make sure that your spark doesn’t go out. The war is coming, you’ve secured part of the army. What other option is there?” he kissed the top of her head, stroking the silvery curls. “I haven’t always been the best to be around, but by doing this, I can make it up to you.”

“ _You want to survive, don’t you_?” the voice in her head, silent for all these weeks, spoke up. “ _Believe me, I understand a soul bond is quite an ordeal. But you have survived worse, haven’t you_?”

“ _But I would be marrying ‘m_!” Fleur shot back internally. “ _’E ‘as kidnapped, raped, and put me through so much! Asking me for my ‘and in marriage is lunacy_!”

“ _I am not excusing his actions or saying he has not done terrible things,_ ” the voice practically sighed. “ _There is worse to come, and you might need protection. Any leverage you have could be beneficial. You must do what you have to if you want to get out alive_.”

Fleur sighed, removing herself out of his embrace and sat up. He joined her, and the ring appeared in his hand. She knew what she had to do. She didn’t want to do it; she wasn’t ready to get married, nor did she want to marry _him_ , but what other choice did she have? She didn’t want to die, not now anyway.

She watched as he took her hand, sliding the ring onto her finger. She observed the sparkling silver band, the moonstone catching the light of moon of the room and sending a cascade of sparkles across the walls and floors. “Fine,” she bowed her head in defeat. “I will marry you.”

He kissed her cheek. “I knew you would.”

She let him place kisses down her shoulder, his lips burning against the flesh. She looked back down to the ring and sighed.

It felt more like a chain than an engagement ring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember the tag that says unhealthy coping mechanisms? Yeah, some of these tags are going to start coming into play. Our poor girl's thoughts and feelings are all jumbled and add in three weeks of basically no talking, outbursts are bound to happen. This does not mean, however, that she is excusing what he's done or that she loves him. I do very much believe she's afraid of developing Stockholm syndrome. 
> 
> Also, here's the link of where I found Fleur's evening dress! https://www.discountdressshop.com/collections/prom/products/corset-back-off-shoulder-mermaid-long-prom-dress-ice-blue?variant=31597044269121
> 
> Next chapter we will be getting an update from Fleur's family and holy crap, are things going to get more intense. The soul bond will definitely get explained more. As for the characters everyone is waiting for, please be patient :) we're getting there. Just because we haven't seen our favorite potion's master doesn't mean he's not there, taking information on what's going on. 
> 
> As always, stay safe out there! Thanks for reading, and leave a comment if you'd like! The next chapter should be up by next week, so I shall see you then! Ta ta for now!


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm a few days early, but I really wanted to get this chapter out! So here you go! It's told from a character whose perspective I haven't written before, so be warned that it's a bit different from J.K. Rowling's version. But do take into consideration all that has happened. 
> 
> Wedding will be coming up in a few chapters, so I hope you're all ready for that! Fleur is just over the moon about this (note the sarcasm).
> 
> Well, without further ado, grab some popcorn and enjoy!

It was strange to look in on oneself from so long ago.

Louis Delacour stared at his past self and found it both bewildering and amazing that thirteen years could change one’s appearance so drastically. In the late spring of 1982, he looked much younger. There were no gray streaks at his temple or in his beard. No crow’s feet around his eyes and to his chagrin, he was much thinner. Not that he minded so much growing older; it was an unavoidable fact of life. It wasn’t something to dwell on. Especially considering the worries and fears he carried now.

Nearing his fifties, he didn’t look nearly as bad as his old friend. The man before him was thin, making his eyes appear sunken in the soft lighting of his home office. The frown lines at his mouth and forehead were made even more prominent by the deep bags under his eyes. As Louis stared at the familiar face before his past self, he felt a swell of loathing. This man’s son had taken his little girl away. Wrenched her away to some corner of the earth where no one could find her. The grief, a deep ache in his chest, strained for release.

Yet his past-self merely looked to his former friend with a kind smile. “Barty,” he greeted amicably in French, coming up from his desk to grasp the older man’s hand. “I was not aware you would be popping in unannounced. It is quite unlike you.”

“Yes, sorry about that, Louis,” Barty Sr.’s curt voice cut through, his smile a mere thin line. “I hate to intrude upon you like this, what with you are so busy and all. I took a few days off, quite unlike me I know, but…”

He trailed off, dark brown eyes flickering distantly towards the window. His mind a thousand miles away, Louis thought as he stood next to his past self. He didn’t have to use Legilimency to know what old Barty was thinking about.

“Yes, well,” Barty cleared his throat, returning to his usual stiffness. “With the time I have off now, ministry’s orders, I thought it would be best to visit old friends.”

“Is Elowen with you?” Louis asked, waving his wand to duplicate his own teacup and saucer. “Apolline and I ‘ave not seen ‘er since Fleur was a baby.”

“No,” Barty shook his head quickly. “She is at home. Feeling unwell, you know, with her condition she doesn’t feel much up to traveling.”

Louis didn’t fully understand what the Greengrass illness was, only that Elowen was the unfortunate one of her family to contract it. It skipped a few generations, with no seeming end in sight and out of all the times he had seen her, she was always very pale and tired looking. Sometimes not even able to walk, sitting primly in an old wheelchair. So upon hearing that she wasn’t well was no surprise to him.

“’Ow is she doing?” his past-self asked gently, and Louis noticed his old friend’s mouth twitch. “Considering all that ‘as ‘appened with the war and your son-”

“I have no son,” Barty hissed quietly, cutting him off. “Not anymore.”

“Barty,” Louis pressed. “There’s no need to pretend. Not with me. I ‘ave known that boy since ‘e was a small boy. You are allowed to be sad, Barty. This pretense of yours, it is not ‘ealthy. What does Elowen say?”

“Elowen?” Barty barked back laugh, and despite the hard glint in those eyes, Louis could see deep down in them. He could see the grief hidden so well, carefully concealed by cold suppression. The older wizard shook his head. “Elowen doesn’t do much these days. She won’t eat, she barely sleeps, and she spends too much time in his room with a photo album. She won’t let me remove anything that once belonged to him.”

“Can you blame ‘er?” Louis sighed, shaking his head. “’E is ‘er son, ‘er only child. She is a childless mother, Barty. This is a grief she will not recover from so quickly, if ever.”

Barty went silent for a moment, not meeting his friend’s eye. Louis in that moment upon hearing his old words, related more strongly to Elowen than before. Never before had he imagined that he would lose his oldest daughter. Or see Apolline so distraught that it took so long for her to recover from the initial shock. He wanted to hold his daughter again, as if she were a small baby again and never let her go. The whole situation felt surreal, as if he could blink and she would be before him again with a quick smile and a laugh.

“I haven’t seen her like this in a long time,” Barty suddenly said, voice nearly inaudible. “Not since Ariadne.”

More silence fell between them. Louis shifted uncomfortably at the mention of Ariadne. He remembered both Barty and Elowen glowing with excitement with their quiet announcement of their daughter. Louis, though not knowing Barty too well at that point had never seen the man so happy. They had decided to name the baby Ariadne, and they were about to tell their son when Elowen suffered another episode. Her body unable to provide for the baby, and she miscarried. No one said anything about in front of the grieving couple. So, he wasn’t surprised that Elowen was taking her son’s imprisonment as hard as she had her miscarriage.

Barty opened his mouth, as though to say more when a loud rattling noise interrupted him. Louis almost smiled at the knowledge of what that noise was, and it seemed silly now, how he reacted towards it in the past. Barty stared at the closed door, unsure of whether to investigate or not when Louis’ past-self heaved a great sigh and yanked the door open.

“Fleur Isabelle Delacour!” he said firmly, in a tone he didn’t use unless he absolutely had to. “Ow many times ‘ave I told you to not roller skate in the ‘ouse?”

Louis heart ached at the sight of his daughter. The impulse to hug her threatened to overwhelm him, and when he reached for her, his hand went right through her. She was so small then, not yet six years old, and dressed in bright yellow. When she was young, she reminded Louis of one of Botticelli’s angels, with rosy cheeks to match. He watched painfully as she rolled into his office, hair flying behind her. His past-self fixed her sternly, while she looked up at him with a pout at having gotten caught. Yet her deep blue eyes burned defiantly.

“The Delacour ‘ome is ‘undreds of years old,” he scolded his daughter, and she scowled towards the floor at being chastised in front of another adult. “You will damage the marble if you continue this behavior. Now, you know I love you my _petit fleur_ , but if I catch you doing that again, I will tell your maman.”

At the mention of her mother, Fleur’s eyes went wide, and she nodded her head swiftly. Louis then fixed Barty with an apologetic smile. “Sorry about that. One of Fleur’s little friends gave ‘er those skates as a present and she absolutely loves them. Oh, Fleur, where are my manners? Darling, this is Bartemius Crouch. You ‘ave not seen ‘im since you were a little baby. ‘E is an old friend of mine and your maman’s.”

Fleur nodded, turning her face brightly towards the older wizard. “Ow do you do, monsieur?” she gave a small curtsy, allotting him one of her more innocent smiles.

“Very well, young lady,” Barty forced a smile, hiding the lie behind it. “It is a pleasure to see you again. Are you making sure to mind your father?”

“Of course, monsieur,” Louis’ heart ached at the way she spoke so openly, but if he looked carefully, he saw the mischievous glimmer in her sapphire orbs.

His past-self placed his hand on her head, ruffling her hair gently. “You are not in trouble, this time,” he warned, with a fond smile. “Run along now, dear. But if I catch you skating in the ‘all again, I will tell your maman.”

With a great sigh of exasperation, she took a seat on the cream-colored sofa in his office and proceeded to take off her skates. Louis watched her now and wanted nothing more than to leave this memory. What happened next, when she skipped out of the room with a small wave in their direction, he blamed himself. He had done his best to forget this memory, and he suddenly remembered why.

Barty turned to look at him once he closed the door, an expression of something akin to melancholy etched onto his weary face. “I remember when Barty was that age,” he then shook his head, surprised to even hear himself speak in such a way. He cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with saying that. “Not that it matters now, of course.”

“It is not too late,” Louis said carefully. “Listen, Barty, it is not too late. You gave Karkaroff another trial when ‘e said ‘e ‘ad information. Give Barty Jr. a new trial. Even you ‘ave to admit ‘is trial was not done properly. You did not take their individual statements or try them separately. ‘E may be a Death Eater, but ‘e may not ‘ave actually done what you ‘ave accused ‘im of.”

Barty’s eyes flashed at the mention of his son’s name. “He tortured Frank and Alice Longbottom, two of the absolute best Aurors the Ministry has ever seen. They suffer a fate worse than death; they don’t even recognize their son! But you want me to retry him? As if that will change anything, he still has the scarred mark on his arm.”

“True,” Louis nodded. “It does not change the fact ‘e is a Death Eater. But ‘e is young, Barty. It might ‘ave all been a young boy’s mistake, getting involved with You Know Who. Perhaps this the only way ‘e thought ‘e could get attention from you.”

“Just what are you implying, Louis?” Barty’s glare burned as cold as an ice storm, his voice just as deadly. “That my son’s choices were my fault?”

“You know perfect well that is not what I mean,” Louis offered calmly. “I am thinking that if ‘e did not torture the Longbottoms, then perhaps ‘e deserves a new trial. ‘E might confess what ‘e knows about the Death Eaters you know walked free, if ‘e knows that ‘is farther is listening to ‘im.”

Barty sighed, shaking his head. “It doesn’t change anything. My son is a monster. You have no idea how shameful it is. Everyone blames me for his choices; Elowen is convinced he’s still a child who needs protection. But I see him for how he truly is, and I treated him as such. But apparently that makes me the bad guy. My career is ruined because of him.”

“There are more important things in life than becoming Minister!” Louis snapped, uncharacteristically irritated. “’E is your son, Barty. You and Elowen’s only child. All we ‘ave left at the end of the day is our family. Think of Elowen! It might ‘elp ‘er recover from this ordeal. You say you ‘ave no son, but in doing so, you are abandoning ‘er. You both created ‘im, and you are further isolating ‘er in ‘er grief by pretending ‘e does not exist!”

Barty stared at him in stunned silence. His past-self took a breath, hand lingering on his teacup to take a sip, but could not bring himself to do it.

“Even if I were to retry him,” Barty’s voice was soft, softer than Louis had ever heard him be before. “Even if he didn’t torture the Longbottoms, it doesn’t excuse any other crimes he’s done. How many people he’s killed that I don’t know about. He still has to go to Azkaban, there’s no other way.”

“But if ‘is crimes are not as bad as you think, then ‘e may not ‘ave to stay there permanently,” Louis pressed. “’Ave ‘im serve ‘is time there, but upon the end, ‘onor it by releasing ‘im. It will show people, your Elowen, that you are not only swift with justice, but a compassionate father who loves ‘is son.”

Barty frowned. “And what sort of life would he even lead? The Ministry would watch his every move; he’d be a pariah for the rest of his life. Our family name is tarnished enough. My sisters don’t have children. Aradia’s not married, and I haven’t spoken to Endora in years. The Howler she sent me a few months back doesn’t count. The Crouch family is one of the oldest wizarding families in Britain, and now it seems it will end with me.”

“There are understanding people out there,” Louis sighed. “People who can acknowledge, but still see past a person’s mistakes, Barty. If your son serves ‘is time and is released, ‘e can pick up ‘is life and begin again. The Dark Lord is gone! I do not imagine ‘e will come back anytime soon. But there is a chance that your son ‘as a possibility of correcting ‘is mistakes. Not many men can say they ‘ave the same options.”

“You speak as though my son is not a lost cause,” Barty eyed him carefully. “But you do not know what it’s like to lose your child.”

“Don’t I?” Louis said dryly, arching an eyebrow. His hand stilled around the teacup. “You do not remember what ‘appened almost three years ago? When my daughter was kidnapped by the traffickers your Aurors and France’s Aurors were tracking? Yes, Barty, I know perfectly well what it is like to ‘ave your child and then to ‘ave them disappear.”

“I did not forget,” Barty said quietly. “I apologize, Louis. I should not have said that.”

“You saved my daughter’s life,” Louis brushed him off. “She was young enough to not remember too much of it, but I still agreed with you that obliviating ‘er was the best thing to do. You are my friend, and I owe you a debt for ‘er life. If your Aurors ‘ad not arrived in time…”

Louis recalled the terrifying experience and shuddered in spite of himself. His then three-year-old daughter kidnapped and nearly sold to some illegal veela breeder in the Ukraine. If Barty hadn’t of arrived in time, she would be living in a foreign country being groomed and raped by heinous men. Now it had happened again, and he couldn’t help but feel it was his own fault. His daughter was out there somewhere, suffering a fate worse than he could imagine. He swore he would protect her; to never allow something so terrible to happen. But he failed, and that failure hurt just as bad as his grief.

“And we put those disgusting men and women in Azkaban,” Barty said distantly. “For life, due to their crimes.”

“And thank Merlin for that,” Louis echoed.

Things fell silent between them once more, but Louis did not tear his gaze from Barty’s. The older wizard stared at him strangely. The gears of his mind rolling, and his lips twitched as if he wanted to ask him something.

“A life debt is something not to be mentioned lightly,” Barty said finally, uncertainty in those dark brown eyes. “If by some miracle it turned out my son was innocent of torture, he could be released after serving time.”

Louis tightened his hands at his sides, the urge to strangle his former friend coursing through his veins. Yet his past-self merely stared at the man in confusion. “Yes,” he said cautiously. “Depending on the severity of ‘is crimes.”

“Your family is as old as mine. Just as prominent and powerful,” Barty pressed forward, with more confidence than before. “Your family is in debt to mine, for saving young Fleur’s life. If my son were to be released, his future will not be an easy one. Yet he will be well off financially; our vault is full of generations of wealth. Your daughter could be well provided for if you were to accept.”

Louis had to turn his head away, the memory of those words roaring in his ears. His past-self took a step back, jaw opened in shock. “You…You want to arrange a marriage?” the initial shock was quickly replaced with anger, and he rounded on his friend. “She is not even six! Your son is now twenty! A grown man! Why in the name of Merlin and Morgana would I allow my daughter to marry an adult wizard!”

“Don’t be crass, I didn’t mean now,” Barty scowled, revulsion crossing his pale features. “I meant when she is of age. You know perfectly well that arranged marriages still happen among the older families. This wouldn’t be a surprise to anyone.”

“That is still an age gap that I and Apolline are not comfortable with. Not that we would arrange a marriage for our daughter anyway. If and when she chooses to marry, it will be for love!” he continued to round on Barty. “You know I cared for Barty Jr as much as you and Elowen, but we do not know the extent of ‘is crimes! If in fact ‘e committed murders, do you think I would want my daughter to marry one?”

“You owe me a debt,” Barty reasoned, though his voice carried a warning.

“And I will gladly pay that debt, but not like this,” Louis countered, shaking his head. “Enough, I do not wish to speak of this anymore. I ‘ave made up my mind and my answer is no.”

“This is the only way I can make Elowen happy,” Barty surged forward. “My family line can continue, and my reputation salvaged somewhat. Your daughter can care for my son in a way I cannot. She will look after him, distract him from trying to find You Know Who. Give him children to care for-”

Barty stopped suddenly, his face paling further. Louis watched himself grow white, and then his cheeks blossomed with furious pink, to angry red. “You would turn my daughter into a toy for ‘im to use as ‘e wishes?” his voice deadly low, a growl at the end of his throat. “A common broodmare to give you ‘eirs?

“Louis-”

“Get out!” Louis shouted then, wandlessly waving the door open. “Get out, I cannot even look at you! I do not care what you do about your son, but I do not want to see you ‘ere again! You stay away from my family! Get out! Out!”

The vision around them blurred, and Louis found himself ejected out of the Pensieve. He steadied himself, running a hand over his face to wipe the unshed tears. It was a memory he wasn’t fond of; had worked so hard to not think of after all these years. Next to him, Albus Dumbledore stood still as a statue, his normally bright blue eyes as gray as stone statues.

“I apologize,” Louis said after a moment’s silence. “I am not sure ‘ow ‘elpful that memory is. I seldom spoke to ‘im after that. I attended Elowen’s funeral months later, though I never knew…I never once even thought of Barty breaking ‘is own son out of Azkaban. I should ‘ave suspected, I should ‘ave kept an eye on ‘im.”

“It is not your fault,” Dumbledore said gently, but there was a firmness behind it that caught Louis’ attention. “Barty was always very private about his life. Not even I suspected him of having smuggled Barty Jr. out.”

“Like father, like son,” Louis mumbled, and paced around Dumbledore’s office. “I refused to allow his son to marry my daughter, and now ‘ere we are years later and said son ‘as my daughter. I should not ‘ave allowed this; I should ‘ave been at the final task.”

“Louis, I must tell you once again that this is not your fault. It is no one’s fault but Barty Jr.’s,” he then paused, and the fire burning from the hearth showed just how old and tired the Headmaster looked. “And my own. It took me too long to put together the pieces of Lord Voldemort’s plan. I did not suspect the fake Moody until it was too late. For that, I give you and your family my apologies.”

“Yet you are ‘ere ‘elping us try to find ‘er,” Louis argued, accepting the apology with a nod. “Your Ministry refuses to believe You Know Who is alive. I ‘ave received more letters from Fudge giving me condolences, but to stop bothering ‘im over “dead girls” and to seek ‘elp from a ‘ospital.”

“Fudge is scared,” Dumbledore began with a deep frown. “And fear makes a man do foolish things. I know very well what is trying to do now here at Hogwarts. However, keeping an eye on me here will not prevent me from preparations to move against Lord Voldemort.”

Louis flinched at the name, but Dumbledore looked nonplussed as usual. Louis rested a hand on the mantle piece, staring into the glittering orange-red flames. “The French Ministry won’t get involved. They don’t to risk their friendship with Fudge,” Louis said acidly. “As if our family name means nothing to them. As if they do not remember who the Delacours are.”

“I am afraid that governments will often do more to help themselves sometimes than others,” Dumbledore spoke gravely. “We have had nothing but peace for fourteen years, and in our indulgence, the enemy has been allowed to return. But Fleur is alive, Louis. Her situation is bleak, but she is alive.”

Louis glared sharply at the Headmaster. “My daughter killed a man,” he snapped angrily. “That bastard marked ‘er! Raped ‘er! She is nineteen and ‘as experienced more cruelty than someone ‘er age should!”

“There is no denying that, no,” Dumbledore began calmly, but even Louis could see the icy anger in those blue eyes. “She has been through more than anyone should. Escape is not possible, not right now. Yet she is resourceful, and I have full confidence in her that until the moment comes, she will survive this.”

“We could ‘ave saved ‘er when they went to Russia!” Louis cried, the dismay evident in his voice. “We could ‘ave ambushed them! Put that monster back in Azkaban!”

“No,” Dumbledore shook his head, and Louis saw the sadness glimmer in the old wizard’s expression. “If we had done that, it would have exposed Severus.”

“And so what if it did?” Louis moved away from the fireplace, eyes narrowed furiously at the old wizard. “That man is no friend of ours! All last year I received letters from my daughter telling me ‘ow nasty ‘e is towards ‘is students. ‘E may be a useful spy, but we ‘ad the chance to rescue my daughter!”

“And what would have prevented Barty from attempting to take her again?” Dumbledore implored softly, eyes flickering between Louis and the door to this office. “He created an elaborate plan to kidnap her without the Ministry’s suspicions. Even if locked in Azkaban, he would be released. It is only a matter of time before Voldemort breaks out the rest of his followers. What would stop him from pursuing her then? If he wanted her for a quick distraction, she would not be alive still.”

Louis wiped his eyes again. “We would protect ‘er; do anything to make sure ‘e would not get ‘er,” but even still, Dumbledore had a point. His former friend’s son would chase his daughter to the ends of the earth. What sort of life would she have then, constantly having to look over her shoulder and having to lie low? Her life would revolve around the Death Eater’s until the day he or she died.

“She has survived this long,” Dumbledore said earnestly. “Voldemort wants her alive; to utilize her abilities for his own gain. Severus is keeping his eye out for her, so I expect Voldemort will be putting her to more use soon. But she is a survivor, Louis. I believe she understands that if she wants to make it out of this, she needs to have Barty’s absolute trust in her.”

“Trust in ‘er?” Louis scoffed. “That man is a monster! ‘E kidnapped my daughter just so ‘e could rape ‘er.”

“If that were the case,” Dumbledore shook his head. “Then you would have her body buried in your family’s crypt.”

The image crossed Louis’ mind, and he shuddered. “Well, perhaps you do ‘ave a point, but I do not want to even think about ‘ow much ‘e knows about ‘er,” he paled considerably. “I always knew ‘im as a very thorough man. I spend nights awake, wondering ‘ow much ‘e knows about ‘er. ‘E probably knows she comes from a long line of powerful veela; that she is a direct descendant of the very first veela. ‘E knows she comes from a prominent family.”

He ran his hands through his graying hair and paced in front of Dumbledore, who stood quiet, thinking hard about something. Prominent family was an understatement, he thought with a tight frown. There were a few members of the Lestrange and Rosier families still in France, even though most of them had fled to England at the end of the war with Grindelwald. A few others still existed, but none of them were as powerful as the Delacours.

“We may no longer be the sole owners of power, but we still carry our titles,” Louis nearly whispered. “My family ruled the magical world of France until the 1790s, as you are likely well aware.”

“When the French Revolution happened, yes,” Dumbledore nodded. “Your family stepped down from their positions to allow the French Ministry to exist.”

“If we ‘ad not, we would ‘ave ended up like Louis the XVI and Marie Antoinette,” Louis said absently. “My ancestor Sebastian, though good natured at ‘eart, was not fit to rule. It was only natural that ‘e stepped down. I am not above using my title if need be, and I appealed to the French Ministry using it, but well, you know ‘ow that went.”

“I am not sure whether Barty knows about that or not. Though I say it cannot surprise me if he does,” Dumbledore remarked. “Voldemort, however, does know. How he learned it, I can only make assumptions at this point. It is not information, though, that I see him using. His arrogance in himself often blinds him from what is right in front of his own eyes.”

“If ‘e cares so little about ‘er, then why use ‘er abilities?” Louis asked wearily. “’E sees veela only as creatures, to be used and discarded as though they were animals.”

“Precisely,” Dumbledore nodded. “Yet his followers, his tools, he uses at his own discretion. He sees her as useful as the others. Useful, but easily replaced.”

“So ‘e will kill ‘er!”

“I do not think so,” Dumbledore shook his head. “At least, not if she serves him well. Not when she has her uses for him. Her connections, her own abilities, he will use them as he sees fit. He does not emotionally attach to others, you see, but he sees her as a particularly beneficial piece on a chess board. And for Voldemort, his pieces are only as useful as they present themselves to be.”

“So my daughter is going to ‘ave to play this game,” more tears burned in his eyes, but he did not wipe them away this time. “Until we rescue ‘er or until she dies.”

“We will aid her with what ways we can,” Dumbledore moved forward, with a great heaviness on his face that made him seem older beyond his long years. “Severus has not been able to directly offer her aid since he is spying for the Order. And he does not know where Barty is hiding her. I believe that Severus will be seeing more of her as the weeks progress. Now that-”

“Do not say it,” Louis cut Dumbledore off, not even caring how rude it was. “Please, I do not wish to ‘ear it.”

“It would be unwise to feign ignorance now, Louis,” Dumbledore put gently. “Fleur is getting married, and that is a truth you must face. Yet this marriage can be annulled if we catch and separate the two of them.”

“There is more to it than that,” Louis continued to pace. “It is not just marriage, it is worse.”

Yet what he was going to say was quickly cut off when the doors to the Headmaster’s office swung open, and his dear Apolline burst in in a quick movement of silver. Following behind her like a shadow, the very professor he was most eager to meet.

“Louis!” Apolline ran into his arms, embracing him tightly. She kissed him, not even caring at all that there were other spectators in the room. Tears slipped down her pale cheeks, glittering in the candlelight. “Louis, it is terrible! We cannot allow this, we cannot! I will not allow our daughter to do it!”

“I apologize, Headmaster,” Severus Snape spoke up dryly, observing the scene before him with distaste. “I would have allowed her to burst in like this without warning, had I known that she was following me.”

Dumbledore held up a hand. “It is all right, Severus, I understand why Apolline is here. And she is more than welcome to be here with Louis and I,” he paused, and fixed Apolline’s teary face with sadness. “I know what is going to happen.”

“It is unforgivable!” Apolline was practically shouting. “A soul bond! There ‘as not been a soul bond in over a ‘undred years! ‘Ow did ‘e find out about this? No outsiders know about them!”

“He has possession of the only book about veela written by a veela,” Severus replied. “Lucius Malfoy acquired it, and it took a long time to find. Even harder to translate, but Crouch was always good at Ancient Runes.”

Apolline seethed. “’E ‘as no right to do this to our daughter!”

“He is a Pureblood wizard. He feels he can do whatever he wants with her.”

Louis had to pull his wife back to prevent her from hexing Severus, and Dumbledore must have sensed danger too. He quickly eyed Severus disapprovingly. “By Pureblood politics, then yes, he feels he has the right to do so. That is what Severus meant, I believe.”

Severus made no move to rebuke that, but Apolline spoke before anyone else could say anything. “A life link is more than just a marriage,” she pursed her lips tightly, to prevent the sobs from bursting out. “You do not even ‘ave to be in a marriage to ‘ave one. It is a link that forms between a veela and ‘is or ‘er companion. It can be with a witch, wizard, or even another veela. You become one with that person. A part of yourself is exchanged with theirs, creating a link that cannot be destroyed.”

“It cannot?” Dumbledore inquired carefully.

“Non,” Apolline’s body shook with the great effort of restraining herself. “The link is a permanent feature. Not even when they die does it disappear.”

“When they die?” Severus asked quietly.

“A life link is for life,” Apolline answered gravely. “If one dies, then death is not far behind for the other. Their lives are dependent on each other.”

“I see,” and Dumbledore’s eyes were stormy. “He has found a way to ensure his own survival. If we tried to kill him, it would result in killing her.”

“Something like that, oui,” Apolline nodded. “Though I should say it is not that simple. Two people in a life link share more than just a part of each other. They share a mind link. They will know what they are thinking and feeling. Memories, even. With the link, they are able to expand their individual powers. If one is in danger, they will know. They can even intervene; their ‘alf of the link can even, in certain situations, ‘alt the process of death.”

“Veela used to perform these bonds with each other in the past,” Louis clarified more, Apolline nodding next to him. “But then, a veela was captured by a man and ‘e forced the link between them. After that, more and more veela were less likely to perform the bond. There are veela today who ‘ave gone their whole lives without knowing about it. It is one of the closely kept secrets. Or it was, anyway.”

“How did they force the bond?” Dumbledore asked. “I am under the impression that both participants have to be willing.”

“The man challenged ‘er,” Apolline said with a sneer. “To a race, and she accepted. ‘E chased ‘er for three days without stop, eventually managing to pluck a piece of ‘er ‘air. Our ‘air is quite strong, so for the man to get one strand evokes binding magic. The veela owed ‘im a favor after that, and ‘e made ‘er life link with ‘im. After they both died, the practice of life linking, or bonding, became less popular.”

Apolline nervously touched her hair, as though the very thought of someone plucking her hair frightened her. Louis didn’t blame her, and he wrapped his arms around her comfortingly. She pressed back into his hold, appreciating the proximity. Severus looked in their direction momentarily, before turning back to Dumbledore.

“It may not be a bad idea,” he started slowly. “For the bond to happen.”

“ _Quoi_?” both Louis and Apolline snapped.

Severus glanced at them. “Barty thinks he has the upper hand here, and for the moment, he does. While he does not trust me, and will not come to me for anything, I have been observing his behavior towards her from afar. He believes that this will protect her from the Dark Lord, though I have a feeling that he is actually striving to protect her from the others.”

“Protect ‘er?” Apolline growled. “’E is the one who will need protection when I am done with ‘im!”

“You may not like it,” Severus said quietly. “And your daughter certainly does not like it, but it might help her in the long run. It is as you said, they become closer than a husband and wife do. It might, and I say this with no guarantee, might prompt him to eventually turn.”

“Turn?” Louis prompted with a scoff. “’E is a Death Eater! Loyal to no one but the Dark Lord! ‘Is “love” for Fleur is twisted and deranged.”

“Be that as it may,” Severus ignored the outburst. “But the link, as you said, connects them deeply. Her thoughts and feelings will be a part of him for the rest of his life. How long will he deal with them before finally doing something about it? Such as, putting her own interests above his own and returning her to you?”

“Would ‘e?” Apolline asked, doubtful. “They would not be able to exist without each other. Separation would be too painful, enough to even drive some mad. I do not want that for our daughter. I never wanted any of this for ‘er.”

“Yet this is what she is facing,” Dumbledore finally spoke, calm but still firm. “The link might prove to be his own downfall.”

“But ‘ow can we be sure?” Louis protested. “For all we know, it will change nothing!”

“True, some people are not so easily swayed,” Dumbledore nodded. “However, I should think that since Barty has gone all this way to keep her to himself and is going so far to protect her from some of the more dangerous of the Death Eaters, I do not believe he hasn’t thought about this. He has devoted a part of himself to her, and for us and Fleur, that is leverage. If they bond, they will always have that connection, but it might be her in the end who has the upper hand.”

“And you are sure of this?” Apolline’s voice trembled. “You think our daughter might make it out of this alive?”

“I am sure of very few things,” Dumbledore said gravely. “But there is always a chance, and I believe that Fleur will do what she has to in order to make it out alive.”

Louis could only nod his head in silent agreement, his grip around Apolline firmer when she placed her face in her hands. “She is a warrior,” he said finally, allowing the other wizards’ attention on him. “Our daughter is a fighter. And an incredibly talented witch. She is a veela who carries in ‘er, the blood of kings and queens.”

“So she thinks she is royalty?” Severus inquired, with a hint of sarcasm.

“Thinks?” Louis narrowed his eyes. “It is the truth. Fleur is the ‘eiress to the Delacour family. We ruled France for centuries, until the revolution. We do not go around bragging and showing off our titles, so it is never anything we carry over people. But our daughters are princesses, and for that monster to kidnap our Fleur is a great disservice to France.”

“Yet they are not here in Britain fighting for her,” Severus said in an almost bored way

“You know why that is,” Apolline snapped. “They are afraid of Fudge’s reaction. Afraid of being at odds with Britain after years of peace. Why stir up drama when one government ‘as shown “proof” of ‘er demise?”

Severus said nothing, but his silence was enough for Louis. He eased his hold on his wife, stepping towards the Headmaster. “When we manage to rescue our daughter, you will convince your Ministry to let us ‘ave ‘im,” Louis said with absolutely no room for argument. “If ‘er life depends on ‘is, then ‘e will be ours to do with as we wish.”

Dumbledore could only nod. “The British Ministry will fight you for him,” he said serenely. “But if we can convince him to reveal information, then he is all yours.”

“’E will pay for what ‘e ‘as done,” Apolline’s smile was bone chilling, in a way that only an enraged mother’s could be. “And I know what I would do with ‘im if I ‘ad ‘im.”

Yet she didn’t say what it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I agree with MelissaRod00 that 😱😱😱 is the only way to describe every chapter. It is canon now (imo) that Fleur is a princess. The French Ministry of Magic was formed until the 1790s, right when the French Revolution was, and this is an idea I've been sitting on for awhile. The Delacour's are a very prominent family, Fleur just didn't mention how prominent. Gee, I wonder if Barty knows...
> 
> Barty Sr.'s memory charms are very powerful, as we've seen in canon when he modified Bertha Jorkins' memory. I imagine then he was panicked when modifying Bertha's, seeing as how she discovered his secret. Fleur has no memory of the event due to the spell he placed over her. Whether or not she will ever remember it, we'll have to wait and see. 
> 
> My headcanon (for this story, anyway) is that Louis interned under Barty Sr. in a sort of exchange program after graduation from Beauxbaton's. They remained colleagues afterwards and remained friends until, well, Barty Sr.'s proposal. It might seem a bit ooc of him, but stress and desperation make a man say and do bad things. I think at this point Barty Sr. was considering busting Barty Jr. out of Azkaban already. However, his reputation and family status are still important to him, as it is for many other Pureblood families. I am fairly certain that in the past a lot of Pureblood marriages were arranged. 
> 
> We will be seeing more on the soul bond, especially when it is performed and we'll see it from Barty and Fleur's perspective. The mythology behind plucking the hair out of a veela comes from veela mythology. I thought it would be interesting to add in, so there ya go. 
> 
> Alright, that's all I have for now. I hope you all have had a good week. Stay safe out there, and I will see you all next time! Bye!


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Since this chapter isn't as long as the others (but none the less important), I'm releasing it a bit earlier. Chapter twenty-six won't be up till at the very least, next Tuesday since hooo boi things are gonna happen. It will be in Fleur's p.o.v since I love writing from her perspective, so you all have that to look forward to! 
> 
> This chapter is in Barty's p.o.v, which I know you guys have been wanting more of, so here you go! He's been quite a busy man with his Death Eater work and planning his wedding. Thank goodness he has Narcissa to help. Though I am fairly certain that she's doing it so he'll owe her more favors. 
> 
> Thanks again for the all the support! You guys are the real miracles here! I would give you all hugs if I could, so have a virtual one instead!

Hardly anyone stood in the entrance of Borgin and Burkes on a blustery evening in early October. Two witches were standing outside, speaking in hushed tones as one slipped a vial into the other witch’s cauldron in exchange for a few golden coins. They paid no mind to the popping sound nearby, their attention fixed on their conversation. Neither of them noticed the tall cloaked figure walk into the closed shop of Borgin and Burkes.

“Well if it isn’t Crouch,” came a familiar oily voice from behind the counter. “Bit late of you to be out and about right now, isn’t it? Not very smart of you to be here, considering the Order wants you alive. Or dead.”

Barty lowered his hood, a sneer crossing his face. “Why Borgin, if I didn’t know better, it almost sounds like you’re not interested in my business,” through the dim lighting, he could make out the shine of Borgin’s oily black hair. “But we both know that can’t be right.”

Borgin clicked his tongue in an annoyed way. “It’s after business hours; if you were anyone else, I would toss you to the street.”

“And defy the Dark Lord’s orders?” Barty stepped forward, his taller frame towering over the stooped greasy man. His grin was far too wide to even be considered friendly. At the mention of the Dark Lord’s name, the half-blood’s face paled considerably. “For all your respect of Pureblood families, you don’t seem to be showing any towards me.”

At once, Borgin’s hostile manner shifted into a more neutral one. He took a step back from the counter, pushing more space between them. “Your father tried to get this shop, my ancestor’s shop, shut down multiple times. But of course, I should not hold that against you,” Barty smirked at the simpering slick voice, the man slipping back into the pretense that Barty was a loyal customer.

“My father didn’t appreciate his family’s bloodline, so naturally your concern is valid,” Barty began, in a manner that he was certain Fleur would call arrogant. “However, should I hear you speak to me in that way again…”

“Of course not, sir,” Borgin lowered his head, but he noticed the man bite the inside of his cheek to keep from saying how he truly felt. “And my loyalty to the Dark Lord I hope will not be questioned. I am always happy to assist those still following the old ways.”

Loyalty had nothing to do with it, Barty thought. Like Pettigrew, this man was only concerned with saving his own skin. Better to align oneself with people in the position of power to avoid being stepped on. Yet, he was here on business. However slimy Borgin was, it would not do for him to get worked up. After all, he had his uses and it would be remiss of him not to make use of his services.

“Our guest,” Barty began casually, looking over to one of the shelves behind the counter. An assortment of human skulls, of varying conditions, decorated the wall. Muggle skulls, he noticed absently, and he wondered where Borgin had acquired them. “He hasn’t given you any trouble, has he?”

“Nothing a few curses couldn’t fix,” Borgin’s smile was undoubtedly cruel. “He screamed and struggled once Mr. Malfoy’s use of the Imperious Curse wore off. But after a few hours, he went as docile as a baby Wampus cat.”

Barty grinned. “Wonderful.”

“But I must ask, why keep him here? I am a businessman, you see, so it might look bad if he were to be…er, caught,” Borgin shifted nervously, glancing out the windows where the two witches still stood chatting. “Not that I am unhappy serving Mr. Malfoy, of course.”

“No one accused you of such,” Barty sighed, and put on his best placating smile. “But the Order knows about the Malfoy’s allegiance to the Dark Lord. And while their basement has proven to be excellent at holding prisoners, their home is the first place they would go looking. The last person our guest was with happened to be Lucius. You see how it would look if he were caught there?”

“I see,” Borgin answered, but he still looked uncomfortable. “But it has been well over a month since his capture. Why move him now?”

Barty paused, and for once, he supposed the shopkeeper had a good point. “The Order is watching Malfoy’s movements,” he answered decidedly. “All of the Death Eaters, known or suspected, are being watched by the Order. If they get even one ounce of evidence on us, they will use it. Malfoy’s home is under observation, but your shop is not.”

Borgin’s already white face, if possible, became even paler. “The silencing charms Mr. Malfoy placed will need replacing every so often,” he mumbled, more to himself than to Barty. “If customers hear even one scream…”

“Oh come now, Borgin. You should feel honored. The Dark Lord is convinced that no one will come looking here,” Barty leaned forward, elbows resting on the wooden counter. He smirked at the man’s grim expression. “And this is Knockturn Alley. Do you really think most people who come here would ask questions?”

“Oh, well, I suppose not,” Borgin blinked a few times, having to think about that. A few splotches of color returned to his cheeks, and at once, his oily demeanor returned. “You must forgive a businessman for his worries. This shop is my livelihood, after all.”

“Clearly,” Barty smirked.

Borgin paused, seeming unsure of whether or not he should say anything. Finally, he took a deep breath and nervously glanced over to Barty. “Is it true,” he began, not quite fumbling with his words but not the shining pillar of confidence he was earlier. “That the Dark Lord is meeting with an important political figure?”

A frown crossed Barty’s features, the gears of his mind trying to come up with a logical reason as to how slimy old Borgin would know this. “Did one of the others tell you?” he asked, very carefully.

“Mr. Crabbe came in, with Mr. Goyle, and they might have happened to mention it,” Borgin said airily. “They did not mention who it was. I just can’t help but wonder if it was true.”

“It is,” Barty answered, and though Borgin stared at him expectantly, he said no more. Except, he added one piece of warning. “However, Borgin, it would be in your best interest to not ask about it again.”

He wasn’t even supposed to know, though a part of him considered letting the Dark Lord know that some of his followers had loose lips. Truth be told, even he didn’t know who it was his master was in contact with. Someone very high up politically speaking, and the Dark Lord mentioned to him that he would be bringing his guest at the engagement party. Which, would be in exactly one week, all thanks to Narcissa and her love of playing hostess. Still, whoever this person was, apparently the Dark Lord did not trust any of his followers with knowing who it was. At least, not right away.

Borgin stepped away from the counter, the jostling of coins jingling in his pocket. Barty observed him loftily. The man was shifty, clearly not at ease with the Death Eater inside his shop. His lips kept twisting between a nervous smile and a grimace, and his eyes darted from Barty to the front door. He walked past a shelf containing a single rag doll. Upon noticing Barty’s gaze, the older wizard plastered a fake smile to his face.

“Every muggle owner of that doll has met with untimely circumstances,” Borgin advertised, a trace of glee in his voice. “Tragic, of course, but it will be an interesting piece to those wishing to buy it.”

“Can’t say that I am interested in buying dolls today, Borgin,” Barty said dryly, unimpressed with the not so subtle attempt at trying to get him to purchase something. “Perhaps a little girl would be better suited towards that purchase.”

Borgin scoffed. “Mrs. Malfoy was uninterested as well,” he remarked coldly, but a smile pulled at his lips. “But Mr. Malfoy was most interested. I expect it will be gone within the month.”

“How nice for you.”

At the mention of Lucius’ wife, Borgin suddenly turned to him, clapping his hands together in a snapping noise. “How could I have forgotten? Mr. Malfoy mentioned to me that you are to be married soon. How did your bride take the news? I imagine it would be upset, knowing how they hate to be controlled by those above them.”

Barty’s demeanor changed, not going unnoticed by Borgin. “My bride is very well, thank you very much. _She_ is very happy to be getting married,” he said, with his voice almost as chilly as Narcissa’s when she was upset with someone. “And I would prefer that in the future, you refer to my wife as not an “it”.”

“My apologies,” Borgin bowed his head, though Barty could still hear the imperiousness behind it. “I mean no disrespect, Mr. Crouch. I have always assumed that veela tend to be flighty creatures. You know, with all that fairy blood in them.”

“True, she used to be flighty, but I have managed to tame that out of her,” Barty said easily, and he had the vaguest image of Fleur glaring at him as he spoke. “And when you do meet her, I highly suggest that you refer to her as my wife. If you do not want to disrespect me further, that is.”

“No, Mr. Crouch,” Borgin bowed even lower. “I do not want to displease you further.”

Liar, but he could be dealt with later, Barty thought. However, one more disrespectful comment about his bride would not be tolerated. He had no doubt in mind that Borgin would sneer about their upcoming marriage with disdain, but Barty had no intention of letting one with a status lower than his bother him further about it. Grievances aside, Barty knew full well he could work with those he didn’t like.

Besides, wouldn’t Borgin like to know that her fairy nature was not the only thing running in her deliciously ancient blood. It was times like these that he was grateful for knowing things about his fiance's family that not a lot of outsiders knew. Hell, it was certainly something Fleur never brought up, and he imagined she probably didn’t know that he held that information. _His princess_ , the little nickname he held for her, had to come from somewhere, didn’t it?

The heavy wind outside rattled against the shop’s windows, the establishment’s old wooden foundations creaking against the strain. Barty glanced back out the window, the two witches no longer there and taking off down the street to escape the onslaught of wind. Borgin eyed him when he thought that Barty wasn’t looking. It wasn’t friendly, no, it was more akin to looking at cauldron oozing a ruined potion. Yet Barty didn’t care and continued to wander throughout the shop.

He smirked, taking full delight by making Borgin annoyed. He stared at the shining opal necklace on display, the light of the candles reflecting its brilliant glow. However, he was not foolish enough to touch it due to both the warning label and good old common sense. Anything in this shop, he was sure, could kill him. He also felt quite certain that Borgin would not prevent it either.

“Mr. Nott came by a few days ago,” Borgin eventually said, unnerved by the silence. “You remember, he owns a few antique shops of less…refined caliber. Now I won’t mention what he said, out of respect for you, but he seemed to be quite interested in your bride.”

That immediately caught Barty’s attention, and Borgin’s smirk was positively smarmy. “Yes, he did seem rather interested in her. Since he does not have a wife anymore, you see, it must get lonely,” he paused, noticing the dark glare Barty was sending his way and quickly back tracked. “We sell things to each other from time to time and he had something rather interesting to give to me. Your bride is a half-veela, isn’t she?”

“A quarter,” Barty answered humorlessly, his gaze burning holes into Borgin’s crouching form. “I was not aware that Mr. Nott could be so generous.”

“Oh yes, quite generous,” Borgin said dismissively, brushing aside the idea. “Yes, it is quite an item. Not something that this shop has ever held. Would you care to see?”

The bastard knew he had him hooked, so Barty followed Borgin through the shop. The back room mainly consisted of plain grayish-white walls with wrought iron sconces. Shelves lined the walls, holding objects of various condition and size. The large workshop table in the center of the room, covered in items of debatable worth. All the objects were ordinary at best, save for the long rusted brown chains that sat heavy on the surface. The links stared ominously up at him, and Barty blinked. The last time he had felt chains was when they were released off his wrists in Azkaban. The bruises remained for a long time and even now, faint scars decorated the skin.

Borgin side stepped him, fingers lingering lightly on the chains. “Mr. Nott informed me that he acquired these on one of his trips to Bulgaria. Cost him an arm and a leg, but he thought that if anyone could get some use out of this, it’s you.”

“Chains,” Barty stated, unimpressed. “As a wedding gift. How subtle.”

“Ah, but these are special chains,” Borgin’s eyes gleamed wickedly. “They-”

“I know what they are,” Barty cut the other wizard off, voice as chillingly clipped as before. “I didn’t think there were anymore in existence; seeing as most of the Ministries had these destroyed a long time ago during a movement for veela rights.”

He knew perfectly well what these chains were, and what they were used for. If Fleur saw them, she would go rigid with fear. It took a long time for Veela to be recognized as beings and not as beasts, considering the appearance they could take when enraged. He didn’t have to ask Fleur if her mother ever warned her to be wary, for veela poaching still happened, though not as common as before. From what he’d read and heard of, it was easier to catch them as children, when they had not yet come into the full extent of their abilities.

While the muggles considered cold iron to simply be a poetic word for the substance, the word meant an entirely different thing for veela and their respective kin. Cold iron was hard to come by now adays, but back when his great-grandfather was still alive, it was quite common. Though hard to produce, it was specifically coated in fairy blood and was near lethal to any veela who came in contact with it. Back in those days, it wasn’t illegal to have. Now, if a Ministry official were to come in and see it, it would be enough to put Borgin in Azkaban for life.

“I am willing to part with these,” Borgin started, not subtle in the slightest. “For a price, of course. Your bride, considering her fae heritage, might think twice about being disagreeable if she knew you had these.”

Barty stared at the chains in contemplative silence. It was unlikely that she would become “agreeable” if she knew he bought these. In fact, the image of her flying into a rage at the sight of these crossed his mind. This was Titus Nott’s cruel idea of a joke, that much was obvious. Causing Fleur more pain was not in his agenda, but at the same time, it would be considered rude to refuse a gift. Not that he had any intention of using them. But all the same, better to have them in the case one of his colleagues were to happen upon them.

“How much are we talking?” Barty inquired.

Borgin’s grin widened. “5,000 Galleons.”

Barty snorted. “For a pair of chains? Why Borgin, it seems like you’re trying to extort me. You know I cannot just walk into Gringotts and get money. I’ll offer you 4500 Galleons.”

“Are you trying to swindle me? I have a business to run here,” Borgin shook his head. “5,000 and that’s my final offer.”

“Then I’ll just have to go and see Nott,” Barty sneered. “His items have always been of better quality. I’m sure he has another pair of chains he’s not telling you about. Nicer condition too, probably. You know how he is; always searching for pairs and better deals.”

“My offer is 5,000,” Borgin glared. “And if you’re not careful, I’ll add another thousand while I’m at it just for being insulted.”

“4500 Galleons and I’ll make sure you get a free ticket into the Malfoy’s manor.”

Somewhere Barty was certain that a shiver of something unpleasant crawled down the spines of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. Borgin’s eyes lit up at the suggestion, his body temporarily seizing up at the idea. “That is quite an offer, Mr. Crouch,” he simpered, running his fingers along the links of the chains fondly. “Quite an offer indeed. Of course, that might be a proposition that you may not be able to live up to.”

“You have my word,” Barty began stiffly. “But if that is not enough for you, I can give it to you in writing.”

There were other ways, naturally, of giving Borgin his word. Yet those methods were long and tedious. From the way Borgin was mulling things over in his mind, muttering to himself, and Barty knew he had won. He grinned, his tongue snaking out in excitement as Borgin clapped his hands together loudly.

“It is a fine offer,” Borgin started, extending out his right hand. Barty clasped it firmly, shaking it lightly. Borgin grinned. “4500 and I get to go to the Malfoy’s? Not a deal one receives every day. I will call upon you in the future when I have a moment to spare.”

He was going to be in Narcissa’s debt forever, but Barty was fine with that. “I’ll collect these when my business is done here,” Barty said dismissively. “Now, where is it you are stashing our guest?”

“In the cellar,” Borgin answered without blinking. “He’s been quiet for a while now. I think all the screaming has destroyed his vocal chords.”

Well, that wouldn’t do. Barty eyed Borgin, wondering if the man was perhaps joking, but there was nothing humorous in that gaze. He sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. “He better not have screamed himself bloody raw,” he snapped towards Borgin, who flinched at the cold tone. “I do not want to have to spend time healing that bastard. Not when I have more important things to discuss with him.”

Borgin flinched at the cruel way the word “discuss”, was spoken, but ultimately said nothing. He led Barty back down the hall, stopping when they reached the end of the hall and tapped his wand against the fourth paneling of wallpaper. The wood creaked and parted before them, revealing nothing but a steep staircase that led into more darkness. Borgin waved his wand, the sconces along the cellar’s walls lighting. They descended silently down the stairs, where the air became much colder and more biting against his skin.

When they reached the basement landing, Barty noticed something crawling along the stone floors, something heavy clanking around behind it. His wand giving more light, his dark eyes lit with a maniacal delight at the sight of Sturgis Podmore crawling around on his hands and knees. His hazel eyes nearly closed thanks to the giant black swelling around his eyes. Dried blood caked his nose and mouth, his teeth nearly the same color as he sneered towards Barty and Borgin.

“Come back for more?” Sturgis snarled in an attempt to be threatening. Yet without a wand, and being chained to the wall, Barty thought of him as a struggling toddler trying to get away from his mother. Sturgis pulled against the manacles, droplets of blood leaking from his wrists. “Bring me my wand Borgin, you coward! I’ll-”

Yet he immediately ceased his threats when he noticed who exactly it was. Instead of Borgin, he realize that it was Barty standing before him with a sickening smile. The color drained from his face, and Barty noted with glee that he seemed rather wary. “Crouch,” Sturgis growled. “I didn’t want to believe Moody when he said you were alive. Where is the Delacour girl? Where is she?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Barty said, giddy with mirth. “How is Moody, by the way? I’ll have to give him my regards when I see him next.”

“He’ll curse you all the way back to Azkaban!” Sturgis staggered forward, still pulling the chains as though to break free. “Or kill you if he can! You’re a dead man, Crouch!”

“Oh, I highly doubt that,” Barty rolled his eyes. “But if it makes you feel better, I won’t bother correcting you further. Though my fate should be the least of your concerns now, Sturgis. You and I are going to be well acquainted with each other by the time we’re done.”

Sturgis’ eyes followed Barty as he moved towards him. “Whatever you’re planning, I won’t do it!” the Order member protested as Barty advanced. Borgin glanced towards the door, inching towards as the stairs as if to get as far away as he could.

“I apologize,” Barty leered. “If you thought I was giving you an option. But alas, we shall see how long this takes.”

“Get away from me!”

“Silence!” Barty snapped and pointed his wand towards the man. “Behave yourself, and you may just live for a while longer.”

“I would rather die than bow to you!” Sturgis cried in a wail of fury. “Kill me instead! I will gladly die knowing I was completely useless to the likes of you!”

Barty clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “How noble of you,” he sneered, shaking his head in a feigned show of sadness. “But I think we’re being a bit over dramatic now. You don’t really want to die; no one does.”

“Whatever information you think I have, I will not give to you!”

“Enough!” Barty waved his wand, and Sturgis fell silent. He smiled, almost gently, and reached his hand out to pat Sturgis on his fair head. “It might take me a while, and it’ll be awkward for you, but let’s make the best out of this.”

“No!” 

“ _Imperio_!”

Sturgis slumped forward, a sort glossy film coating his dark hazel eyes. His body twitched, and through Barty’s control on the curse, he could feel the man resist him. His will attempted to overthrow the curse, a push and pull between them as they fought for dominance. Yet Barty pushed his own will forward, and whatever force that compelled Sturgis to fight fell away with a muffled shout. Sturgis stared at him blankly, his mind a clean blank slate just waiting for Barty to slip his own thoughts in.

“Now,” Barty twirled his wand in his dexterous fingers, waving briefly to bring over a nearby chair. He sat down, leaning forward to get a better look at the man. “Where to begin…oh, I know! Tell me, Sturgis, and answer honestly now, all about your role in the Order of the Phoenix.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon divergence ahead! In the book, Sturgis was placed under the Imperious curse by Malfoy and tried to make him go into the room of requirement. Well, they tried that here, but instead of getting sent to Azkaban, the Death Eaters took him instead and have been keeping him locked up for the time being. Now Barty gets to have fun. 
> 
> I feel like I need to clear something up from the last chapter. Louis never agreed to the arranged marriage proposal that Barty Sr. offered. I think most of you guys understood that, so I just wanted to reiterate that here. If anyone was confused, it was more than likely my fault, so sorry about that! But still, thanks again for all the really interesting and inspiring comments ^^
> 
> But yeah, Barty knows more about Fleur than she what she's comfortable with. Remember, he is a very thorough Death Eater. He learns every little detail about his enemies, or in this case, his fiance. He's over the moon about this wedding, so we'll have that to look forward to soon! Gotta get through the engagement party that Fleur is so looking forward to attending. 
> 
> Technically Borgin isn't a Death Eater, but he helps them in HBP so I imagine he's a sympathizer. He's more inclined to look after his own interests, and not refusing Voldemort is the way to do it it in his mind. He's just a coward who, like Pettigrew, looks to those who have the most power. And yes, I did make an Annabelle reference. You're welcome. 
> 
> As always, feel free to comment if you'd like! I love hearing what you guys have to say! You can always contact me on Tumblr to discuss Headcanons and such (the links in my profile). I would recommend you use that since I'm not on my fanfiction.net account that much anymore. Personally, I like ao3 better but that's beside the point. Regardless, have a nice day! Stay safe and well, and I shall see you all next time!


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the longest chapter by far. Over 10,000 words but it was worth it. Work has been busy, but surprisingly Friday and Saturdays were not. I think it was the ball games. Honestly I felt bad for my former Co-workers at the local general store, whose fountain machine actually ran out of ice. Poor guys. 
> 
> So, a lot happpens in this chapter. We got dancing, more plot and introductions to new characters! Honestly, I am super excited with the direction this is going and what will happen in the future. I'm still not giving Fleur much of a break, but our girl is strong. She will get through this! 
> 
> No warnings needed for this chapter. As usual, thanks again for reading and all the support so far! I honestly get this stupid little grin with each comment I see. You guys are awesome!

“You look beautiful, Mistress. You is going to be the loveliest lady at the party!”

Fleur gave herself a once over in the floor length wooden mirror. She did indeed look beautiful in the dress Barty had brought her for the occasion. The deep purple gleamed softly in the light, the lace so intricate, so delicate that if it snagged against something sharp, it would tear. The top of her shoulders were a bit cold due to the mid October chill, but the sleeves that sat on her forearms helped with that. Winky chattered excitedly, brushing Fleur’s silvery hair. It was finally back to looking healthier, and the glow around her body had returned to pulse gently against her pale skin.

Yet Fleur could only plaster a tired smile to her face. As much as she enjoyed getting dressed up, there was no happiness to this occasion. “Thank you, Winky,” she said softly. “Are you sure you won’t need ‘elp tonight?”

“Of course not, Mistress, Winky is a very capable house-elf,” Winky assured her, completely missing the point of the question. “Winky wants Mistress and Master Barty to have a good time at their party, and Winky will take care of the rest. The other lords and ladies will have their house-elves along as well, so Mistress has no need to worry.”

It was doubtful she would have a good time. Not with all the Death Eaters under one roof. No friends, unless she counted Narcissa and calling the older witch a friend was a big stretch. Tonight, she would be surrounded by her enemies; by people who would rather see her dead or under their control. She would be passed along, presented to the various Death Eaters and their associates, all pretending to be supportive of their…their…

Fleur couldn’t bring herself to even think the words. Immediately, her fingers traced along the ring staring up at her mockingly. By early December she would be a married woman. Married to a man she hated but needed. When she was younger and imagined herself getting married, it wasn’t like this. It wasn’t under these circumstances, but rather to a man she loved. Surrounded by friends and family, promising unyielding devotion to one another.

The thought of what she was losing was enough to make her eyes prickle with tears, but Fleur quickly blinked them away. Crying didn’t do any good. Especially not with Winky present, who would probably run off to tell Barty that she was upset. That had the potential to start an argument, and she was in no mood to be in a fight.

Not that she was in the mood to go to a party either. If she had her way, she’d be staying at the house and curled under a blanket. Even standing, as she was doing right now, she found to be exhausting. No matter how much sleep she got, she still found herself tired. She blamed it all on stress, the thoughts quickly vanishing when the bedroom door opened.

“Are we ready to go yet?” Barty asked, adjusting the collar of his formal dress robes. The lining of the black satin matching the color of her dress. “If we don’t get there soon, we’ll be late. You have no idea how annoyed Narcissa gets when people are late."

The image of an annoyed Narcissa, her lips pursed as though sucking on lemons, crossed Fleur’s mind in a fleeting thought of amusement. Yet that thought quickly vanished at the press of something cold on her shoulders. Barty stroked the blades with his thumb tenderly, goose pimples rising at each touch as he stared at her reflection.

“You look beautiful,” he whispered against her ear, kissing the spot behind it that always sent a shiver down her spine. “Absolutely gorgeous, _ma princesse_.”

There was the way he said that little nickname that caused Fleur to eye him warily. Something in his smile that suggested he found something rather amusing but would not say what that was. There was still much he was keeping from her, Fleur decided with a slight frown. However, if they were to go through with what he had planned, that wouldn’t be for much longer.

“You do not look bad yourself,” she commented, and then turned her head away. “Though purple is still not your color.”

“I will take that as a compliment,” Barty smiled, hands still lingering on her shoulders. “But we really should get going now. The party will be starting soon.”

Her stomach rolled at the thought, but she let Barty take her by the arm. She grabbed the translucent silken shawl resting on the vanity’s chair, releasing his arm momentarily to wrap it around her bare shoulders. It didn’t do much to combat the chill outside, but it was better than nothing. Winky followed behind, keeping a respectful distance as they descended out the doors.

One quick disapparation later, they stood before a familiar sight. She stood in front of the iron gates of the Malfoy manor, the nearly full moon casting a silvery light down on the grounds below, illuminating the landscape. The entire manor lit up as an indication to those entering that indeed, a party was about to be held. Barty took his wand out, tapping the gates and indicated who he was. The gates swung upon for them, and with Fleur still gripping his arm, they made their way up the front path.

“There you are!” Narcissa snapped in their general direction as soon as they entered the manor. Her silver and emerald gown flared around her figure flatteringly, but her annoyed gaze ruined the image of the gracious host. Winky took her shawl and his outer robes before disappearing to find the other house elves. Narcissa strode forward, ice blue eyes narrowed. “Guests will be arriving soon, and here you are almost late. I swear if I wasn’t the hostess…”

Barty had the nerve to smile at her. “My apologies, Narcissa,” he glanced over at Fleur, taking her hand into his. “Fleur was taking a while getting ready.”

It was almost eerie how similar her and Narcissa’s glares were, and Barty winced slightly as she gripped his hand tighter, the bones in his hand popping. The older witch gave a great sigh and with a dismissive wave of her hand, she brushed them off.

“Well, you’re here now, so I suppose we might as well head to the ballroom. The Crabbes and Parkinsons arrived only a few minutes ago,” Narcissa pursed her lips distastefully, but said no more on what she truly thought on the matter.

Still linked to Barty’s arm, Fleur allowed the older witch to lead them down the candle lit hallway. Through the open door in between the double staircase, they passed rooms Fleur had only briefly seen before a few weeks prior. Becoming less distant, she heard soft music playing from some ways up ahead. A pair of double doors opened before Narcissa’s slender form. Fleur stepped inside, squeezing Barty’s arm for reassurance. If she thought outside was chilly, it was nowhere near as cold as the stares sent her direction.

The ballroom was no less elaborately decorated as the rest of the house. The white walling sat pristinely, not a speck of dust or dirt on it. The brown marble flooring looked as though it had been polished twice, so that Fleur could see her reflection clearly. The high windows allowed plenty of lighting, but it was the painted ceiling that took her breath away. Like Hogwarts, the painting changed from dreamy pinkish-white clouds to twinkling nighttime stars. The stars danced around the ceiling, shooting across as if it were an endless vast universe. The Malfoy’s had outdone themselves, to no one’s surprise.

Fleur didn’t recognize four of the five people in the room, not counting Narcissa and Barty. Lucius Malfoy, standing near a marble statue of some important wizard, eyed the two of them with indifference. The couple who had been previously speaking with him, immediately ceased talking. The man styled in overly formal white and black robes, paled in comparison to his wife, dressed in a shade of pink that did not flatter her complexion. Fleur had the feeling she had seen the woman before, or at least, someone very similar to her. The woman turned her nose up, her expression mirroring that of a pug.

“Lord and Lady Parkinson,” Barty spoke quietly in her ear. “Their daughter, Pansy, is dating the Malfoy’s son.”

“Will they be ‘ere?” Fleur asked, murmuring under her breath.

“It’s unlikely,” Barty shook his head slightly. “Most of them won’t want to risk their kids running their mouths.”

She nodded, still unsure, but allowed Barty to pull her towards the couple’s direction. Their impressions of her hadn’t changed, much to her unsurprise. Still, she granted them a small fake smile and bowed her head. Barty nodded towards them.

“Sterling,” Barty greeted the Parkinson’s with a polite formalness. “Camila, I trust you are doing well? Your daughter is a fifth year at Hogwarts now, is she?”

“We are doing well,” Sterling Parkinson said, with the same polite stiffness, but his eyes didn’t leave Fleur’s. “Pansy has just started her O.W.L year.”

“I see, well, I am sure she will do fine. She’s a bright girl,” Barty continued on, before glancing at the other couple standing near the enchanted harp, observing it with scrutiny. “Much brighter than some of the other Slytherins.”

Fleur watched as the woman, Camila, hide her smile with her drink. Sterling nodded, catching Barty’s gaze and giving a small sigh. “Edward Crabbe is most displeased with you, given the circumstances. I’m sure he will avoid you the whole night, if possible.”

“Oh look, I do believe that is Priscilla’s third glass of champagne now,” Camila said haughtily, tossing her dark hair. “If she isn’t careful, her face is going to match that awful dress she’s wearing.”

Fleur couldn’t help but privately agree with the arrogant witch. Priscilla Crabbe was indeed snapping her fingers at a house-elf, the creature pouring more bubbling champagne into her glass. Her dress was a shade of crimson red that clashed with her hair, but Fleur kept that opinion to herself. Last thing she needed was to be hexed.

“So this is your bride.”

Fleur’s attention snapped from stocky woman ordering more wine to Sterling Parkinson’s passive gaze. Camila stared at her, as though challenging Fleur to say otherwise. She wasn’t sure how much they knew about her situation, or even if they were Death Eaters. She didn’t see a mark on either of their arms, but for all she knew, they could be concealed by their sleeves and gloves. Barty released her arm, placing it on her middle back and nudging her forward slightly.

“This is Fleur Delacour, my fiancé,” Barty introduced her, and she bowed her head once more in a show of respect. “You know of the Delacour family, Sterling.”

“Yes,” Sterling drawled, still unimpressed. “Her father is the head of the French department of international relations. The ambassador of France, I do believe. And her mother is a veela.”

Camila hid her smirk within her drink again, and Fleur felt her breath hitch. The Pureblood wizards never broke her gaze, and within Sterling’s dark gaze, she knew full well that this was a challenge. He wanted her to react, to embarrass herself in front of the small gathering of people. Yet Fleur stood to her full height, tossing her hair back, and gave him her sweetest smile.

“Yes, my father is the ambassador to France,” she nodded in agreement of those words. “And my mother is a veela. You certainly appear to know your facts, Lord Parkinson. I am impressed you know so much about my family.”

She took vindictive pleasure at how Camila eyed her husband warily, but Sterling ignored his wife in favor of speaking to Fleur. “When one works in the Ministry, one tends to hear a lot of things,” he then looked to Barty. “Not to mention your name is very well known among us. Your fiancé has certainly surprised us all.”

She didn’t miss the way his voice hardened, and his hazel brown eyes narrowed in Barty’s direction. Camila nodded her head, but her silence said everything her husband just did. Barty raised his eyes in feigned surprise. “This is hardly a surprise,” he lied, in an attempt to be subtle. “Though I must be doing that a lot lately. Oh, is that Nott I see there? And I do believe Avery is with him.”

The four of them turned their focus to on the couple who stepped through the double doors, staring at the décor with slight interest. An older gentleman, with salt and pepper streaking through his black hair and pointed beard. His robes lined with silver and gold thread glimmered in the light from the magnificent chandelier overhead. Nothing the Malfoy’s owned could be considered “cheap”.

The other man Fleur could only describe as dull looking. While perhaps that was a tad harsh, there was absolutely nothing interesting about this man from his mousy brown hair to his boorish face. He appeared to be only a few years older than Barty, but the lines on his forehead and in the creases of his nose made him look older.

“We should introduce ourselves,” Barty said suddenly, taking Fleur by the arm again. “Sterling, Camila, it was nice to see you. Please, enjoy yourselves.”

The Parkinsons nodded to them, and Fleur noticed Camila’s eyes narrow in on the diamond necklace around her neck. A birthday gift from Barty, which had once belonged to one of his grandmothers. Expensive, with intricate details, possibly estimating to more money than some of these families had all together. She smiled politely, and once more, allowed Barty to whisk her away in the direction of the two newcomers.

“Titus, Lloyd, how nice of you to come,” Barty caught the men’s attention, and placed Fleur in front of them. “Allow me introduce my fiancé, Fleur Delacour. Fleur, this is Titus Nott and Lloyd Avery II.”

Both men, unsmiling, nodded to her in greeting. Except, she noticed something peculiar shine in Nott’s pale gray eyes. Something nasty, and as cold as the others. His lips twitched in a sneer, as though he had something he wanted to say, but with a quick look around the slowly filling room, he refrained from saying it. Instead, he took Fleur’s right hand into his, inspecting it as if it were a smelly old shoe.

“How lovely,” his tone, however, suggested otherwise. He glanced at Barty. “You received my gift, I assume.”

Fleur raised her eyes to the bane of her existence. “Gift?” she inquired. “I was not aware we received a gift.”

“It was received,” Barty replied in that oddly clipped tone. “Thank you, Titus. It was very much appreciated.”

Lloyd Avery cleared his throat. “Do you know if the Dark Lord will be here tonight?” he asked, a hint of fear in his tone. “I have something I wish to discuss with him.”

“I honestly don’t know,” she could have kicked Barty for sounding so smug. He smirked at his co-worker, taking absolute delight in his fear. “But if he arrives, I’ll be sure to notify you. If he hasn’t found you already. Now, you’ll have to excuse my bride and I, I do believe that I see Narcissa needing us.”

The wizards bowed their heads in response, immediately locating their attentions elsewhere. Fleur pulled on Barty’s arm, hissing under her breath. “What was that about?” she inquired hotly. “What gift?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Barty patted her arm in an attempt to be reassuring. “It’s not anything you would be interested in, darling.”

“Well, what was it?”

“I’ll tell you later,” he said absently.

She wanted to glare at him, but that quickly disappeared when she was once more presented in front of more guests. The names all blurred together at this point, the old Latin and Greek names mixing in with some of the more recent ones. She noticed many of the Purebloods gathered held similar features. Sharp, aristocratic noses and high cheek bones. Cold eyes and unsmiling mouths. She was all too aware of how many of these families were related to each other. Their histories went as deep as hers, but unlike them, she was the only one in the ballroom of mixed status.

If she were back in France, in Paris during one of the summer balls, she wouldn’t feel so alone. She would have spent the afternoon getting ready with her friends, sister, and cousins. Her father would escort her and Gabrielle into the ballroom, heads held high as their titles were announced. In her home country, she was _Son Altesse Royale, la Dauphine de France_. The heir of the Delacour family, with her title the _Dauphine_ , with Gabrielle’s _la Princesse de France_. Now, her title meant nothing to these people. She was a mere veela that many of them would either like to rape or kill. Or both.

She found herself standing alone momentarily, nursing a glass of undrunk champagne in hand. No one spoke to her as she watched Barty disappear into the crowd to find someone. They looked at her, naturally, as most people did. She happened to be the spectacle of all their attention. To mock and scorn as they pleased. Her body, frozen from their frosty stares, didn’t even react to the gossip that reached her ears.

Priscilla Crabbe, who had drunk far too much champagne already, cackled loudly to the two women next to her. One, a tall thin woman with a long face with curled dirty blonde hair that vaguely reminded Fleur of a horse, and the other, a rather amused woman with tumbling dark brown curls and condescending green eyes.

“Tell me, Cassiopeia, how is your daughter, Aludra? How is she doing, now that she is Lady Bulstrode? Any heirs yet?”

The woman, Cassiopeia, with the rolling curls laughs. “Not yet, though I think dear Claude is a bit nervous. My Aludra can’t wait to be a mother, but he is rather slow, I think. No matter, my Aludra is a Selwyn, and us Selwyn’s always get what we want.”

The three women laugh, and Fleur couldn’t help but overhear the rest of their conversation. Her ears nearly burning pink with what was said.

“But speaking of marriages,” Priscilla continued, glancing not so discreetly towards Fleur. “Can you believe this? I was surprised when Edward told me that Barty was alive, and now he’s marrying this little harlot? Can you imagine?”

“She is a veela,” the horse faced woman giggled. “I bet she bewitched him. You know how those things are. If we’re not careful, they’ll be stealing our sons next.”

“Agnes!” Cassiopeia shrieked, laughing so loud that other people looked in her direction. “What a thing to say! Not that I would allow my Marcus and Julius to marry those little tarts.”

Fleur’s heart slammed against her chest at the implication, yet her face remained impassive. There was no used being surprised by such language. Clearly these women had no filter, especially not when alcohol was involved. Her throat tightened in spite of her reasoning, though, and something prickled behind her eyes. She blinked it away, refusing to express even an ounce of reaction for these women. They weren’t worth it, and she had heard worse.

But still.

“Ladies, I assume we are enjoying ourselves?”

Narcissa, her dress of silver and green glittering in the light, materialized out from the small crowd. The three women immediately straightened underneath her cool gaze, plastering smiles to their faces. However, Narcissa was not phased by the way they froze. She merely snapped her fingers, the glasses of champagne disappearing from their hands.

“Dinner will be served soon,” Narcissa smiled, her voice so crisp that they did not dare try to fight her. “We wouldn’t want to fill up on champagne now, would we, Priscilla? I would suggest a glass of water to cool yourself, you’re as red as a phoenix.”

Priscilla gawked, but made no move to defy her. She snapped her fingers, calling for a house-elf to bring her water, her heels echoing on the marble floors as she and Agnes disappeared. Narcissa acknowledged Cassiopeia with a toss of her head.

“Cassiopeia, it has been a while. How have you been? I haven’t had a chance to talk to you and Octavius all night.”

Cassiopeia, much more subdued now, replied. “I have been well, thank you Narcissa. Octavius is here, somewhere, probably talking business with your Lucius. Tell me, how are you doing? I hear Draco has started his O.W.L year.”

Glancing quickly at Fleur, Narcissa continued with the pleasantries. “I am well, happy to be hosting again. It has been too long since I have been able to throw a party. Yes, Draco is in his O.W.L year, goodness, I do not miss that. Tell me, will Hadrian be here?”

Cassiopeia raised her eyes, and with a grand sigh, she spoke with an air of dramatics. “Well, you know my brother-in-law. He hates parties, and his wife even more so. Octavius keeps trying to get him to show at more functions, but I feel at this point, his brother is just hopeless.”

Narcissa stepped back, her slender hand taking Fleur by the arm and lead her towards the conceited woman. “Have you met Fleur Delacour yet? Barty’s bride, all the way from France.”

The woman before Fleur raised her eyes, almost disapprovingly. “Yes, the veela,” she said, disinterested. “Well, she certainly is pretty. Not quite as pretty as my daughters, but if she works for Barty then I suppose.”

It took every ounce of restraint Fleur had not to strangle this woman. “It is nice to meet you,” she said instead, staring coldly into the woman’s eyes. “You are Lady Selwyn, yes?”

“Yes,” Cassiopeia tossed her head back arrogantly. “Octavius Selwyn’s wife. Not that the name means anything to you, but it would do you well to remember it, young lady. Now that you are to be the new Lady Crouch.”

She almost retched at the sound of that, instead opting to drown her reaction in a quick sip of champagne. Her stomach churned nauseously, which wasn’t strange given the circumstances. Just the thought of her upcoming marriage was enough to make her sick.

“Yes, you’ll make a lovely bride,” Cassiopeia Selwyn continued, a glint of jealousy in her gaze. “Not as pretty as my daughter Aludra, but lovely just the same. Oh, if you’ll excuse me, I see my husband with Lord Goyle. I shall speak with you later. Nice meeting you.”

She said the last part as an afterthought, without any meaning behind it. She flounced off, her curls bouncing against her back as she made her way to her husband. Once out of earshot, Narcissa gave a quiet sigh.

“No one can stand her,” Narcissa commented, quietly to Fleur. “Her family may come from good breeding, they behave terribly at parties. Her niece is far more polite than her own children. You’ve probably met her; she’s in the same year as Draco.”

Well it wasn’t as though Fleur had spent all her time around the Slytherins. They usually stuck together in little packs, but then again, so did she and her fellow Beauxbaton’s classmates. Most of the Hogwarts students, she noticed, were generally friends with those from their own houses. Her own school system had been different. Originally the idea of houses was a complete mystery to her. “Why did they sort students that way?” was generally the question she and her classmates would ask each other.

“Where is Barty?” Narcissa asked, looking around. “I wouldn’t have figured he would leave you alone by yourself.”

“I lost ‘im,” Fleur admitted, almost ashamedly. “I think ‘e went to speak with someone, but I don’t know who.”

“Stupid boy,” Narcissa muttered under her breath. “Honestly, I swear, no sense of propriety…oh, well would you look at that. Selwyn’s finally here. And late. How lovely.”

Fleur was about to reply that Lady Selwyn had went to join her husband when she noticed two new people enter the ballroom. A tall, pale man with sleeked back dark hair and piercing pale gray eyes stood with his arm rigidly linked with the woman he was next to. She thought he was handsome, with his sharp cheek bones and reserved expression, but the woman he was immediately caught her attention.

She was rather short compared to her companion, with long black hair that fell to her waist. Her Asian features stood out against the gathering of many of the Purebloods, her face a perfect oval. Her eyes a soft dark brown that mirrored an expression that Fleur knew well. Her Japanese styled robes of orange and gold were lovely, even prettier than some of the other dresses that were presented.

“So, Hadrian Selwyn is here. And even more surprising is his wife. Last I knew she was spending the year with her family in Kyoto,” Narcissa gave another long-suffering sigh. “And just in time too, dinner is ready.”

“There you are, darling, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

It was almost a relief to hear Barty’s voice. Fleur immediately surrendered into his embrace, a wave of exhaustion hitting her. The chatter around buzzed in her ears, a tiring noise that only seemed to grow louder. She was tired, and she wanted to go home and sleep. However, that wasn’t going to happen. She still had hours to go before she could get out of this nightmare of a night.

“It’s rude to leave your bride by herself,” Narcissa snapped at Barty. “Honestly, Barty, I thought you knew that.”

“It was my mistake, Narcissa. It won’t happen again. My darling Fleur here managed to slip out of my sight,” he pressed her more tightly to him. “Did something happen?”

“No, nothing happened,” Narcissa rolled her eyes. “And you are lucky nothing did. Not everyone is as thrilled about this marriage as you are.”

She added that last bit low enough that no one else could hear. Barty nodded, his lips pressing together thinly in a show of contemplation. When Narcissa walked away, he twisted her around gently to face him, hand caressing her face.

“Did something happen?” he asked again, somehow more gently than before. “You can tell me, _ma princesse_.”

“Non,” Fleur shook her head. “Nothing ‘appened. Just ladies gossiping.”

“I see,” Barty eyed the women around, his gaze narrowing on a sobering Priscilla Crabbe. “Well, no one ever said that Priscilla is the epitome of grace. Believe it or not, she used to be much worse. And always when there is alcohol involved.”

“They do not approve of this marriage,” Fleur said quietly, her hands smoothing out the front of his robes. They lingered there, over his beating heart, her fingers taking in the feel of the fabric. “Perhaps it is a mistake. They will not ever approve of me, Barty.”

“Whether they approve or not, they will not do anything towards you,” Barty brushed her concern off. “Not these people. The worst they will do is make a snide comment, but aside from a few, the rest have no character.”

“Which ones should I watch out for then?”

That seemed to make Barty think for a moment, his dark eyes watching the small crowd gathering around the front to go to the dining room. He took Fleur by the arm, leading her out the doors to follow. He said nothing, not even when they reached the beautifully decorated room. With its paneled fleur de lis wallpaper and roaring marble fire. The crystal chandelier so similar to the one in the drawing room reflected the light off the jewelry of the women. Momentarily, Barty released her arm as they stood towards the head of the table. He pulled the second chair from the head, nodding for her to take a seat as he took the one nearest to the front. He leaned towards her right ear, whispering to it as everyone settled. His gaze landed on Titus Nott, who was still in a conversation with a man she didn’t recognize.

“Titus Nott is someone to watch out for. He won’t do anything to you up front, but he’s petty enough that if he’s upset with you, you’ll know,” Barty said, his gaze then shifting to the Parkinsons. “The Parkinsons won’t bother you. They are allies but aren’t brave enough to take the mark themselves. Camila’s bark is worse than her bite, so you don’t need to worry.”

He looked down the long table, scanning the faces blankly. “The more dangerous ones are still in Azkaban, so for now, you do not need to worry too much,” he then paused, glancing over at Lucius Malfoy before shaking his head. “You should watch out for Lucius. He may be as slippery as a snake, but he’s nonetheless someone to keep an eye on.”

Whether or not Lucius heard this, the pale haired man simply snapped his fingers loudly. The first course appeared, an amuse bouche of Smoked Salmon Napoleon appearing on all the plates. She poked at it, not particularly hungry, but not wanting to be rude all the same. It didn’t look appetizing, even though she knew Narcissa put time into planning all this out. Barty still eyed the table, cutting into the salmon with expertise.

“Selwyn,” he finally said. “You should watch out for Selwyn.”

“Cassiopeia’s husband?” Fleur asked back, keeping her voice low enough that no one else could hear. “Octavius Selwyn?

“No, no, his brother, Hadrian,” Barty replied. “They arrived late. But you should watch out for him. If you think I’m unbalanced, you should see him.”

“Why?”

“His kill count is higher than mine,” Barty glanced over at Hadrian Selwyn, who sat with absolute aloofness as he cut into his food. “I detest disloyal cowards, but Selwyn never complains. He took his punishment without a word against our lord, and to be honest, I think he’s as glad as I am that the Dark Lord is back.”

“And ‘is wife?” Fleur took another look at the Lady Selwyn. “Is she?”

“Sakuya? She is nothing more than a housewife,” Barty glanced over at the elegant woman, who like her husband, said nothing. “She comes from a real old family from Japan. The Pureblood Sakamoto family, whose blood is as old as the rest of us. Her aunt arranged her marriage to Selwyn. I think his parents were hoping she would give them as many kids as his brother, but they just the one.”

She took another look at the Japanese witch, and for a moment, their eyes met. That same expression glimmered in the woman’s eyes. Fleur nearly recoiled at the sight, the mere reminder of the similarity hitting a little too close to home. Frozen, was the only way to describe it. She reminded Fleur of crystal. Hardened by the years and not easy to break. Yet still worn down, as though life had not been kind to her in a long time.

Looking at her, Fleur couldn’t help but the think she might be looking into her own future.

~

Dinner continued on painfully slow. Two and a half hours ticked by, with near silence once the main course was served. No one spoke unless spoken to, and of course, no one spoke to Fleur. Although she was hungry, she merely poked at the tender roast served, sparing a few bites every now and then. The vegetables were good she thought, eating almost all of them before abandoning her plate. She drank the water served to her, favoring it rather than the red wine served. She glanced over at the beautiful hanging clock on the wall. The party wasn’t even halfway done, and all she wanted to do was leave.

She wasn’t sure how much she could stand this when the dessert materialized on her plate. A vanilla bean panna cotta, topped with strawberries and lemon basil. Dessert wine, sweeter than the one before, immediately appeared in white wine glass but she ignored it. The gelatin tasted sweet in her mouth, and since no one was going to talk to her, she took the simple pleasure to heart.

None of the talk was particularly interesting, or at the very least, anything that could be proven useful. They were mindful not to mention anything nefarious in front of those who were not members, but she doubted any of them would mind. She thought it unlikely that any of them would bat an eye at the idea of Death Eater talk.

Nothing interesting happened, until someone stepped through the dining room door. Conversation went silent, and Fleur felt her mouth go dry at the sight of the guest. Her eyes widened, jaw nearly dropping at the familiar figure. Narcissa seemed to be surprised as well, and Lucius immediately stood and strode towards the man with a smile.

“Monsieur Mercier,” Lucius grasped the man’s hand, shaking it firmly. “We were not expecting you to arrive.”

“My apologies, Lord Malfoy,” the man, his English accented with light French, smiled apologetically. “I ‘ope that I am not interrupting things. I apologize to everyone for tardiness. I was attending to business ‘ere with our boss, and I was unfortunately not able to be ‘ere on time.”

“I understand,” Lucius gestured towards one of the vacant seats that Fleur only now noticed. “It is no trouble at all, please, enjoy desert with us.”

The way he spoke, and the way they looked to each other, gave Fleur the impression that they were sharing a silent conversation with their eyes. The patriarch of the Malfoy family returned to his seat, sharing a quick look with his wife as conversation resumed. Fleur looked over to the newcomer, all thought of eating pushed aside as she stared daggers into him. He took a quick look at the dessert appearing in front of him, taking a bite, and nodding to himself.

He finally caught her gaze, and he smiled. Fleur’s blood boiled.

“Mademoiselle Delacour,” he said when conversation went silent again, and everyone’s eyes snapped from the new guest to her. The newcomer ignored the incredulous stares, never taking his delighted gaze from her livid one. “’Ow ‘ave you been? It ‘as been a while since we last spoke. Your father is doing well if you were wondering.”

She wasn’t even sure what she could say. How could she sit here and pretend that she wasn’t infuriated? That this man, this co-worker of her father’s, could sit here and not act like he was disgracing his country. He could sit here, and smile at her, with full confidence in knowing that she was alive, and not tell her parents. That every second that went by, he was in full awareness that he continued to betray their beloved France.

“Fine,” was the only thing she could manage to say. “Just fine.”

The world swam around her, her vision blurring. Any moment now, she thought she was going to collapse. Her father’s oldest co-worker, one he had a friendly rivalry with, was a Death Eater. Germain Mercier, the head of France’s DMLE, a man she had known since childhood, was a Death Eater. This, she thought with a shake of her head, this couldn’t be real. Germain and her parents had gone to Beauxbaton’s together. He attended their wedding as one of her father’s groomsmen. He was Gabrielle’s godfather for Merlin’s sake!

Yet he sat there, pretending that there was nothing wrong with the situation. The white in her chest snarled in rage, curling its teeth back as though to kill. This man, this traitor…

Conversation started up again, but she could still feel his gaze on her. His green eyes never left her silently fuming form. Not even when Barty stared back at him did he relent. Dessert passed, and coffee appeared as the final course. She didn’t touch it, for fear that it would break under her grasp.

“Excuse me?”

She quickly looked up to see Hadrian Selwyn’s wife looking at her with a soft smile. All anger quickly fell back when her warm brown eyes stared kindly down at her. “Yes?” Fleur offered and found it surprising that no one was paying attention to them.

“Would you like to take a walk with me?”

She quickly looked to Barty, who nodded as he leaned back in his seat, listening in to whatever Lucius was saying to Nott. “Go ahead,” he said, quickly brushing his hand against hers. “We’ll be returning to the ballroom soon, so we’ll be there.”

Fleur quickly stood up and followed the woman out the door. A house-elf pleasantly handed their shawls to them, and with the silks wrapped around them, they descended to the back gardens in full view of the beautiful ballroom. They walked silently along the low hedged maze, the sound of water trickling from the pond nearby. The waxing moon lit the pathway, and along with the lights outside, it was easy to see how more relaxed Sakuya Selwyn appeared. Her lined face appeared younger, as if the light of the moon and stars stripped all her worries away.

“It is beautiful tonight,” Sakuya began, faint traces of her Japanese accent lingering in her voice. “Would you not agree?”

The elegant woman, her hands crossed in front of her, acknowledged the trees and flowers that had not fully withered yet. Fleur nodded in agreement. “It is,” she found herself saying out loud. “I like autumn. Everything gets peaceful. A nice reminder that winter is on its way.”

“I agree,” the older witch agreed. “I wanted my daughter to be born in winter, but alas, she is a summer child.”

“Narcissa mentioned your daughter is at ‘Ogwarts,” Fleur thought to say, trying to bring up some form of conversation with this stranger. “’E is in the same year as ‘er son.”

“She is,” Sakuya nodded, and a look of fondness crossed her regal features. “Did you know ‘er? My daughter, Lyra. She looks a lot like me, so I can only wonder if perhaps you did.”

“I do not think so,” Fleur shook her head. “There were a lot of students at the school.”

“I figured as much, but a mother can only wonder,” Sakuya tossed her head back, her hair following like a shadow. “We look so alike, but she has the family eyes.”

“Family eyes?”

“Like violets,” the woman explained easily. “They run in the Selwyn family, but it hasn’t resurfaced for a few generations till now. Cassiopeia is very envious.”

The way she said envious, she thought she saw a smile of satisfaction cross her serene features. From what she had seen of Cassiopeia Selwyn, she couldn’t say she blamed the woman. Sakuya sighed, and looked to her. “You must understand, Ms. Delacour, that I am not a Death Eater,” the woman spoke as though she could read Fleur’s thoughts. “I also understand if you may not believe me; my husband is one. But I never took the mark.”

“Please, call me Fleur,” she corrected the woman distantly. “But you married a Death Eater.”

The woman smiled, neither pleasant nor sad. Simply accepting. “That was a long time ago, before you were even born,” she looked towards the pond that glittered silver in the light of the moon. The water lulling Fleur into a sense of peace that didn’t match the situation. Sakuya stared at it, her eyes faraway as she continued. “It was an arranged marriage brought on by politics. I never had a choice. Much like you, it seems.”

“’Ow do you-”

“Know?” Sakuya interjected easily, a rueful smile tugging at her lips. “Lyra told me that you supposedly died in the tournament, and then Hadrian told me that Barty took you alive. It was only a matter of time before something like this happened. My intuition is never wrong, unfortunately.”

“Then why stay?”

A few months ago, had Fleur known this woman, she would have begged her to help her escape. Yet one look at this woman, and she knew they were the same. Similar to Narcissa, Sakuya had been spending years learning how to navigate through a dangerous marriage. Except, while Narcissa stood as an equal to Lucius, there was something different about Sakuya and her husband. Something frigid and hard. A loveless marriage that neither could leave.

A startling similarity stood between them, and Fleur paused in her steps. The only other difference, was that Barty loved her. An unwanted love, but still there, nonetheless. Sakuya’s hardened eyes expressed a similar weariness of the world that Fleur’s held. If she had tried to fight at all, it clearly had not ended well. The only thing keeping her here was to honor her marriage vows. No, and Fleur narrowed her eyes. No, there was something else.

And she felt rather stupid for not seeing it before. She saw these two women as different as could be. Sakuya, from what she could see, had no desire to be involved in her husband’s activities. She held no love for him. Narcissa on the other hand, loved her husband, and took a selfish pride in her own blood status.

But both of them held an unyielding love for their children.

“Lyra,” Sakuya said softly. “I stay for Lyra.”

Sakuya stepped forward, her slender fingers taking hold of a withering flower. “You and I are not so different. Neither of us have choices, and that, that is unfair. But the world is often unfair. It is not kind to anyone,” she paused, that same hardened look etching her face into stone. “I stay to keep my daughter safe. My husband is…not well. I will not leave my daughter alone in a world like this.”

“So you don’t help the Dark Lord?”

Sakuya frowned. “I do not involve myself. My concern is my daughter and keeping her alive. But,” and she paused then, choosing her words carefully. “You remind me of myself. When I was much younger. I agreed to the marriage because I had no choice. You have not choice. I knew I had to speak with you; had to meet you when I heard what Barty did.”

“The Dark Lord isn’t using you as a weapon,” Fleur snapped. “You ‘ave no obligation to serve ‘im.”

“Don’t I?” Sakuya countered calmly. “If my ‘usband were to land in trouble, who do you think would pay the price? Lyra and I. The whole family would be implicated if something went wrong. I ‘ave nothing to offer the Dark Lord, so I suppose I am useless to him. But I could not refuse him, even if I want to.”

This woman had been playing this game for a long time, even without actively getting involved. Staying in her husband’s good graces, with the suggestion that he was not mentally balanced, could not be easy. Staying to protect her child was something Fleur could only respect.

“I never asked to be kidnapped.”

“I never asked for an arranged marriage,” Sakuya nodded. “They are not the same thing, however, the word no does not exist in my family. I was married to my husband simply to give him heirs.”

Fleur tilted her head. “But you only ‘ave one child. And she is fifteen.”

“I had a difficult pregnancy,” Sakuya frowned. “Having Lyra nearly killed me. My husband gave me only two good things in this world: my daughter and giving me the option to not have more children. His brother has two sons; the family name won’t die out. That is the most important thing in our circles, you see.”

She understood why, and she blamed it on all the inbreeding. Rumors circulated that more and more Purebloods were becoming infertile due to intermarrying with relatives. She heard what it had done to the Blacks, and what little she knew of them, the Gaunt family’s inbreeding had driven them to insanity and from what rumors she heard her grandparents murmur during her visits, infertility.

“I was supposed to carry on the family name,” Fleur muttered. “Any one I married would take on my last name. I am _la Dauphine de France_. Generations of royal blood run in my blood. And ‘e knows it. I am sure ‘e does. When my papa married my maman, there were Purebloods who objected the marriage. One of the Rosier’s begged my papa to marry ‘er daughter instead.”

“I do not disagree with you,” Sakuya smiled wanly. “But those are opinions, that I am sure you are aware of, will not be accepted here. You must tread carefully with many of these people. They want to see you fall, and they will not help you if you do.”

Fleur fixed her pointedly. “And what of you?” she asked rather candidly. “Are you trustworthy? I you are not, then I wonder what you possibly ‘ave to gain from speaking to me?”

“You can call me a friend,” Sakuya smiled gently. “Or an ally if you prefer. I cannot get you out, but I am here if you want to talk. Narcissa is not as bad as she seems. But you must understand why we have to put our own interests first. You understand that, I believe.”

She didn’t want to, but she did. As much as she wanted to say no, she would be stupid to lie to herself. To stay alive, she had to put herself before others. She, Narcissa, and Sakuya, were very much the same. Keeping Barty alive was her primary interest. Her need before helping anyone else. For Narcissa and Sakuya, it was their families; their children still too young to fully be aware of the horrors of this world.

She would not ask Sakuya to fight for her.

“I would like to be friends,” Fleur decided, and for the first time in weeks, a genuine smile crossed her face. “Narcissa is good for advice, but she isn’t…”

“Extremely friendly?” Sakuya joked, and Fleur was almost surprised by the almost mischievous grin that crossed her face. “No, she is not. But she is not bad, either. I would keep my friendship with her than for someone like Camila Parkinson.”

“Or Cassiopeia?”

“Especially someone like my sister-in-law,” Sakuya nodded. “But you did not hear that from me.”

The older witch tilted her head towards the house, and sighed. “We should return to the party. It would be rude for us to keep them waiting. Especially you, Fleur. You are the bride, after all.”

A reluctant bride, but a bride, nonetheless.

They returned to the party, a lit with new candles. Different music played on the instruments, a quicker tempo than before. Couples had taken to the dance floor, and she watched as Narcissa and Lucius danced with more grace and poise than half the people at the party. Priscilla was sitting in an armchair nearby, slumped, with her husband embarrassingly trying to get her to sober up. She spotted Barty, scanning around for her.

A fluttering feeling floated in her stomach. She had never danced with him before, and she wasn’t sure she even wanted to. His eyes found hers, and before she could make a move, he began to move towards her.

Only to be stopped by a man blocking his path.

She nearly froze when Germain Mercier offered his hand to her. “May I ‘ave this dance, _la Dauphine_?” he asked, voice full of teasing mirth. “Come now, you do not want to appear rude, do you? Did your parents not teach you manners?”

People around stared, those not close by wondering what was going on. She noticed Narcissa narrow her eyes, trying to keep an eye on the situation the best she could without getting directly involved. Barty stared at the scene, with anger crossing the astonishment before. As much as she hated her _fiancé_ , it was customary within social etiquette to dance with one’s partner first, and then with other people. So this man, this _traitor_ , asking her for a dance before her partner was not only insulting. It was a statement.

Yet she tossed her hand, glared at him, and took his hand. Not wanting to cause a scene, she allowed him to place his hand on her upper back and she placed her own on his shoulder firmly. He took her right hand into his and proceeded to spin her around on the cold marble floor.

“You must forgive me for my rudeness, your ‘ighness,” Germain said to her with a sardonic grin. “But I ‘ad to get you alone to speak with you privately.”

“My fiancé won’t see it that way,” she glanced over to Barty, who had taken to dancing with a woman whose name she believed was Alecto. “’E will not forgive you so easily for your impertinence.”

“Possessive man, is ‘e?” Germain asked, but he didn’t sound too bothered. He spun her around to the left, his hand on her upper back tightening. “Not that I blame ‘im, of course. You are a fine woman after all.”

Something about the way he said that made her stomach flip. “I ‘ave no idea what you mean,” she said nonchalantly. “’E is my fiancé. ‘E ‘as every right to expect the first dance with me.”

“I am sure,” if he could feel Barty’s frosty gaze on him, he didn’t show it. “But ‘e won’t mind just this one dance. I shall not be staying long. I ‘ave to attend a meeting in the morning. Your father left France a few weeks ago. I thought you would want to know.”

“My papa?” she asked as he spun her to the right. “Where is ‘e? Is ‘e with my maman? What of Gabrielle? The rest of my family?”

“One question at a time, my lady,” Germain laughed derisively. “Your father and mother are scouring all of England searching for you. Your grand-mère too. Your sister, naturally, is at school. All safe and tucked away.”

The relief she felt didn’t last long when his gaze met hers. “You must be wondering why I am ‘ere,” he prompted the conversation again. “But I am sure that you ‘ave questions of your own, oui?”

“Are you a Death Eater?” she hissed, making sure to keep her voice lowered enough. “Why else would you be ‘ere?”

“I could ask the same of you,” he indicated towards her wrist, the mark hidden away by the sleeves. “I ‘eard from the Dark Lord ‘imself that your fiancé branded you with that mark.”

“I am no Death Eater!” she snapped at him, glaring just as fiercely as before. “And I ‘ad no choice in receiving that mark.”

He pulled her closer to him, so close she could smell the familiar scents of his cologne. The same fragrance her papa would use. Strong and sharp, but not overly used. His jaw brushed the top of her head, so close that her stomach rolled again nervously.

“I am,” he whispered in her ear. “I wasn’t intending to reveal this to you, but considering all that ‘as ‘appened, I do not see the point in trying to ‘ide it. We will be seeing each other quite a bit, Fleur.”

“’Ow?” she asked, unsure of what to say. “You and my papa, you are friends!”

“We were friends,” he corrected, not breaking eye contact with her. “And I will ‘appily remain that pretense for a while longer. I will look out for little Gabrielle, so you ‘ave no need to worry. She is still too young, but she will serve a better purpose one day.”

“You stay away from ‘er!” Fleur snarled. “She is your goddaughter, not a pawn! And you want to…to…send ‘er to a mill?”

“Oh my dear Fleur, you misunderstand!” he laughed again, as though she just did or said something familiar. “Until she is of marrying age. I ‘ave a number of friends who are most interested in ‘aving a veela of their own. When she is of age, of course. I cannot believe you think I would send our dear little Gabrielle to a mill.”

He knew exactly what she meant by “mill” and the thought of her sister living in one of those was enough to make her stomach churn nauseously. She would give her own life before allowing her sister to suffer such a terrible fate. To be fucked and raped, bred until she could no longer. No farms kept veela once they were unable to be used.

A hand brushed her cheek, and she nearly froze at the sensation. “Dear Fleur,” Germain started, almost tenderly. “There is no need to get all upset. If you think I bear any ill will to your or your sister, than you are mistaken.”

“Non, just towards my parents,” she snapped. “You ‘ave been friends for years. ‘Ow can you betray them like this? ‘Ow can you betray France?”

“Silly girl,” he shook his head. “France does not care about you. They think you are dead. The Minister does not even care; you think ‘e wants to start an argument with Britain? Of course not! But ‘e won’t be Minister for much longer; I ‘ave just been granted the title as French Minister of Magic.”

She vaguely remembered that he had been running, in one of the letters written to her from her papa. “So France ‘as a Death Eater for Minister of Magic,” her voice sounded hollow in her ears, and she struggled with thinking of finding a way to inform anyone of this. “My country is doomed.”

“Well you do not ‘ave to think of it that way,” Germain shook his head. “I am thinking of the future, much as you. The Dark Lord will take over Britain, and then, the rest of the world. Think of ‘ow many lives I will be saving if we simply give ‘im what ‘e wants.”

“All the non-magique!” she protested, attempting to break out of his hold. “And those who are non-magique born! And us ‘alf-breeds! You will leave us to die?”

“The needs of the many out way the needs of the select few,” Germain paused, with a small frown. “But if we cooperate, ‘e might be merciful.”

“You are delusional!” she attempted to wrench her hand out of his, as his hand just became firmer. “A monster! I will stop you!”

His hand rested on her cheek, the other still resting on her shoulder. His thumb brushed her cheek in a motion that was supposed to be loving, but it made her insides freeze. “Now, now, don’t get all upset, dear girl,” he said, his green eyes gleaming in the light. “You are so much like your mother, you know?”

“Let go of me,” she said so calmly, through gritted teeth. “I demand that you release me at once!”

“Now, let’s calm down, shall we,” his lips brushed against her forehead. “We don’t want to ruin that pretty face, do we?”

“ _We don’t want to ruin that face_.”

 _“She’s still a kid; doesn’t strike my fancy_.”

She froze, a little throb of pain striking at her temple. Long ago had they stopped dancing, and now she lightly pressed her free hand against her forehead. Where had that come from? She didn’t recognize those voices and yet, they were familiar somehow. Like a distant memory she couldn’t quite place.

“Release her. Now.”

Like a saving grace, Barty appeared before them. People were staring now, whispering amongst themselves at the scene. Barty and Germain stood at the same height, passive green meeting burning deep brown. The older man’s hands were wrenched off her, Barty’s hands wrapped so tightly around his wrist she thought the bones would snap in half.

Germain, taking in the sight of everyone staring at them, took a step back. “My apologies, I did not mean keep you from your bride,” his eyes moved to Fleur’s. “She is a family friend, you see. We were catching up; I meant nothing ill towards you.”

“Yes, clearly you two seemed to know each other,” Barty glanced to her, and she automatically knew was going to be questioned later. Great. “And I would appreciate it in the future if you would refrain from touching her.”

“But of course,” Germain held up his hands in mock surrender. “Again, I reiterate that I meant nothing towards you.”

“What is the problem?”

Narcissa made her way towards them, shooting a quick look at the other guests. “Do we need to move to another room to sort this out?” she said so quietly, so chillingly calm that the goose flesh on Fleur’s arm rose.

“Non, non, it is just a misunderstanding,” Germain said quickly, giving Barty a quick bow. “I will find another dance partner, if that is alright with you.”

“It is not al-” Barty began but stopped when Fleur placed a hand on his arm. She locked her eyes with him, a silent plea to not escalate this.

“A new song is playing,” she said, hooking her arm through his to pull him away. “I like this song. Won’t you dance with me, darling?”

With his eyes narrowed towards Germain, he obliged her request. The music started up again, a slightly slower beat that the harp plucked out melodically. One hand settling on her waist, Barty locked eyes with her until Germain took up a new dance partner. Narcissa returned back to her husband, who still looked slightly confused about what happened until they leaned their heads together, whispering in hushed tones.

“What was that about?” Barty pulled her closer, the grip on her waist a bit tighter than normal. He was still riled about what he had seen.

“’E is an old family friend,” she glared in the direction of the man. “Or I thought ‘E was. Now ‘E is a Death Eater, and the new French Minister of Magic.”

“So the rumors that old Minster Dubois is stepping down are true,” Barty’s brow furrowed. “I was not aware that Mercier has been appointed. The Dark Lord must be anticipating the Ministry to collapse sooner than expected.”

“Or to keep an eye on those that they say support ‘im,” Fleur suggested, following his gaze. “’E seems to be convinced that serving the Dark Lord is the right way to go.”

“Well he is smart, I’ll give him that,” but the dark look that burned in his gaze prompted her to realize he was thinking something that didn’t bode well for her family’s old friend. “What did he want from you?”

“’E wanted to talk,” Fleur answered truthfully, but now that she thought about it, what exactly did he want from her? She’d never done anything to him personally, so to say those things to her was unsettling. Similar to the way he touched her, which made her stomach turn.

He was a married man; her family was friends with his wife and sons as well! Yet the way he stroked her face, so intimately like a lover’s. It gave her the unsettling impression that she was going to be pulled into another situation like the one with Macnair. Again.

“I do not trust him,” Barty said finally, tearing his eyes away from Mercier to look into hers softly.

“Neither do I,” she answered back evenly.

For once, they were on the same page. A fact that a few months ago would have disturbed her, but now, aside from that terrible recent revelation, hardly anything phased her now. The man she thought was an old friend could not be trusted that much was clear. Question was, what motive could he possibly have? What was she missing?

Barty pulled her along the ballroom floor, her dress brushing against the solid floor and past another lady’s. Yet she paid no mind, as all her focus was on the man leading her down this dark path. Whatever was coming would come, and overthinking wouldn’t do much about that.

If she had to fight her way tooth and nail, then so be it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, this chapter should titled Pureblood culture sucks. Poor Fleur is having an engagement party and no one wants to talk to her except for a few people. I couldn't introduce all the Purebloods, but I think their reactions are very telling of who they are as people. They do not like Fleur; they are not going to accept her so easily (if ever). The fact that Fleur has a new friend aside from Narcissa will be important later on! 
> 
> The Selwyn OCs are mine. Technically J.K. Rowling owns the creation of the family, but screw her. Their family originally started with this side project I'm working on with their daughter, Lyra, and her muggle born friend, Laritza Rodriguez-Lopez. I live for Hufflepuff and Slytherin friendships (one of my best friends is a Hufflepuff). It basically started out as a rewrite of the first HP book, so I might publish it one day. Not now, but I love my girls to pieces. Hell, we might see or hear more mentions of them at some point. Including our Draco, Pansy, and the other Pureblood kids. And before someone mentions it, we will be seeing Snape again soon! I promise, just keep being patient and we'll get there!
> 
> But we do have more drama coming up! Who is this Mercier guy? Well, from his little introduction here, I can tell you he is a dick. But he's a smarmy dick who has a lot of people wrapped around his finger. Now he's the new French Minister of Magic, with connections to Fleur, so we'll be dealing with him for a while. Also, before I forget, Dauphine is the French word for princess, but typically used for one directly in line for the throne. Or in this case, the next head of the family. 
> 
> I didn't have the Dark Lord show up, cause I don't think he would go to parties. He's too good for that apparently. So he can be a single pringle by himself elsewhere. Serves him right, jerk. 
> 
> I do have two songs I listened to when writing this:  
> The song where Fleur dances with Mercier: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lL-mcKChOIw (this guy's music is great for writing or just for relaxing, so major shout out to him and Brandon!  
> The song where Barty dances with Fleur at the end. A bit short, but I had a song in mind for them too: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NPnCfolm5NY
> 
> Sorry that took so long! I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! I worked my butt off to get it to you in time, so I hope you all enjoyed. As usual, if you would like to comment, please do so. I always enjoy listening to what you guys have to say! Feel free to share headcanons and theories, cause I enjoy seeing them. I hope you all are staying safe out there, and have a great week! Also happy early fourth to those in the U.S!


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Guess who has the new chapter! Me! I hope you all are doing well! Things around here have been pretty crazy. Since our basement flooded last May, the basement has smelled horrible for weeks and we've had a bug infestation. My dad has finally gotten around to cleaning the place out (which has been needed for years but whatever), and now the whole downstairs smells of bleach. Gotta love old houses. But then our plumbing decided to be stupid, so up until today, we haven't been able to use the bathroom or shower. Fun times, my dudes. 
> 
> But other than that, I am doing good. I'm happy to give out this chapter because for once, Fleur gets something nice. Don't expect that to happen very frequently giving the situation. But I hope you guys enjoy!

Fleur stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her reflection stared back at her just as blankly.

Sunlight poured through the windows, streaming in to brighten to the room. It filled the room with warmth and outside there was a sudden break in the chill. The green from the leaves had long faded to brilliant reds, oranges, and browns. They scattered the ground in disarray, though Winky had made sure to keep the front and back lawns completely spotless. Fleur had assisted her in the past few days, raking the leaves in an attempt to keep her mind distracted.

The days after the party bled together, until at last a week had passed since last Friday. The house was quiet, almost too quiet. She stayed outside for the most of it, with only Winky and her thoughts to accompany her throughout the day. A rocker sat out on the back of the house, overlooking the garden in the back. The creaking of the wood against the floorboards echoed in her mind, the back and forth movements calling forth memories long since pushed to the corners. Sitting on her grand-papa’s lap while he smoked his pipe, often making little tricks with the smoke to her delight. Clapping her hands together when he would do a particularly impressive trick, such as a dragon or unicorn.

Those same hands were now calloused, the fingertips and palms covered with small blisters. Narcissa scoffed when she saw them.

“Working like a common house elf,” Narcissa had sneered when she arrived an hour before. “As the lady of the home, you do not need to help her. She should be more than capable of doing her own work.”

Fleur watched as Winky bowed her head in shame.

“It is no trouble,” Fleur brushed the older witch off. “I do not mind ‘elping. It is not as though I ‘ave anything better to do.”

Except for stay at the home alone with her thoughts, and Fleur was beginning to hate being alone with her thoughts. The few times she attempted to prompt the voice into speaking brought nothing but empty silence. As nice as it was speaking to Winky, the house-elf seemed to prefer staying out of her way. Barty was usually gone by early morning, leaving Fleur all alone in their bed and for most of the day, by herself.

So, she couldn’t say she was entirely displeased by Narcissa Malfoy’s sudden appearance.

The older witch’s hands tugged at the white skirt that floated along to the bottom of Fleur’s feet. She almost didn’t recognize herself, she thought as Narcissa adjusted the dress’s train. She narrowed her eyes in scrutiny. Thinner, she decided with certainty and she blamed it on her appetite. Everything looked unappetizing nowadays, and she blamed it on the stress.

She wrapped a hand around her marked wrist, stroking the underside of the bandages. Without a wand, touching the mark didn’t bring the Dark Lord to her, much to her relief. Yet it still burned against her skin like an itch that wouldn’t go away. Her heart skipped a beat as she massaged the bandages, her stomach turning. She stumbled, earning a wary glare from Narcissa.

“I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t move. You nearly stepped on my hand,” the older witch said, raising her eyes as Fleur stepped down from the stool. “What is it, are you sick?”

“Non,” Fleur shook her head. “It is nothing, I think that perhaps I ‘ave caught a bug. If I lie down for a while, I should be fine.”

Narcissa’s eyes did not leave hers. Not for a long time. Fleur shifted, awkwardly thinking of something to distract the witch’s attention. She didn’t like that stare, not one bit. She didn’t glare at her, but the stare analyzed her with an inquiry hiding in those ice blue orbs. In one of her muggle story books as a child, Fleur’s maman had read to her the story of the snow queen. Cold, but not as bad as some would suggest. Sakuya’s words about the woman echoing in the recesses of her mind.

“I saw you and Sakuya Selwyn speaking to another at the party last weekend,” Narcissa finally said, breaking the silence that fell between them. “I cannot say I am surprised she sought you out.”

Fleur turned to her, critically assessing her with narrowed eyes. “What do you mean?” she asked carefully. “All she wanted to do was go for a walk. That is all.”

“Sakuya is no idiot, but she is no great schemer either. I should hardly think that she has ulterior motives,” Narcissa amended her question, and she stepped away from Fleur. Pursing her lips together in thought. “She normally spends the months after summer in Japan, but with all that has happened, I am not surprised she decided to stay in the country. Perhaps she is someone to watch out for.”

“She said we ‘ave a lot in common,” Fleur offered, frowning. “But I do not believe she means any ill will.”

“No, I should think not,” Narcissa glanced over at her. “But I suppose I can see now why she wanted to speak with you. She seldom comes to parties anymore, so it was a bit surprising to see her.”

Fleur could see why. She knew firsthand what it was like to be unwanted. To be seen as nothing more than a pretty trinket to show off at parties. Brushed aside and taken out for display. It wasn’t something she was keen on doing again anytime soon.

Except come early December, it would be much worse. If she thought the engagement party was bad, she could only imagine what her wedding was going to be like. She felt a strange sense of foreboding. Instantly, her chest constricted at the thought and her body swayed slightly at the sudden wave of light headedness.

In that moment, she wanted to tear the wedding dress off of her. Shred it into thousands of white pieces. Preferably in front of Barty, just to see how he would react. The dress once belonged to his mother, though now with alterations so she wouldn’t look like her deceased soon to be mother-in-law. Yet she remained stone faced against the late afternoon sun.

Tearing up dresses wouldn’t get her out of her situation.

Making him suffer wouldn’t get her out of this nightmare.

“I do not mind ‘aving someone else to talk to,” Fleur said tonelessly. “Though I do not know if she knows where this place is.”

“I can arrange for you to meet her,” Narcissa stated briskly, returning to adjusting the train with shrewd eyes. “I can bring you to my home so you can speak face to face.”

“You would do that?” Fleur asked skeptically. “I did not ‘ave the impression that you think much of ‘er.”

“I said nothing of the sort,” Narcissa continued, ignoring Fleur’s suspicion. “She comes from a good family. I have never had a problem with her daughter and her husband is…an associate of Lucius’.”

A Death Eater, Fleur said to herself silently. Although she already knew that, it did little to settle her hesitation.

“Barty said that ‘adrian Selwyn is not to be trusted,” she stated vaguely. “’E does not look very friendly.”

Narcissa paused in her work, staring straight ahead at the soft white fabric. Her mind a thousand miles away, Fleur thought as the witch’s eyes darkened. “He is reserved,” Narcissa said finally, with an edge in her voice. “But he has no love for half breeds, so Barty is right in saying you should keep away from him. It would be easier for everyone involved if you simply refrained from being in his presence alone.”

“Note taken,” Fleur said humorlessly.

“There is something I must ask, though,” Narcissa continued on in that same contemplative tone. She raised her eyes up to meet Fleur’s, the question in there burning. “What did Germain Mercier say to you?”

Fleur felt her throat restrict tightly at the mention of his name. “’E told me that ‘e is the new Minister of Magic in France,” she wet her lips quickly, her voice shaking with effort. “That ‘e is going to let the Dark Lord take over once Britain is conquered. ‘E told me because ‘e knew that as of now, there is nothing I can do.”

Narcissa paused and let out a sigh. “If there is nothing you can do, then there is nothing you can do,” then she added. “For now, at least. France is the least of your concerns. There are more pressing matters at hand.”

“That is my country!” Fleur seethed, annoyed by the older witch’s disregard. “’E is threatening my ‘ome! My family! Did you know ‘e is the godfather of my sister? ‘E said ‘e would not send ‘er to a mill, but ‘ow can I be sure of that when ‘e ‘as lied to my family for years? They are in danger, and I cannot do anything!”

Her heart hammered in her chest, and anxiously she bit at her knuckles. The thought of her parents, dead and discarded on a heap of bodies played over and over again in her mind. The image of Gabrielle, and even her cousins, wrapped in iron as they laid in cages that offered little room for movement. Tortured, raped, and their blood extracted until the day they were no longer viable. Touched by horrible men and women as their eyes glowed dully, just waiting for death to take them away.

In that moment, she knew she was going to be sick.

She pushed past Narcissa, off the stool and into the adjoining bathroom. She heaved into the toilet, sputtering with saliva and bile lingering in her mouth. She heard Narcissa enter the room, cold fingers pushing her hair back out of her face. Her face, completely devoid of any readable expression, only emphasized how old she actually was. The worry lines around her lips and brow the only indication that she found herself consistently on edge.

Fleur doubted that Narcissa was worried for her. No, it was something else. That she was sure of.

“There is nothing you can do at the moment,” Narcissa murmured, not reassuringly, but as a warning. “And worrying yourself sick won’t change that.”

Fleur took in a ragged breath, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She coughed once, her throat burning painfully. “They are my family,” she croaked, desperately craving water. “I would do anything to protect them. Would you not?”

Narcissa stared at her, a fleeting flame of recognition passing through her eyes. She released Fleur’s hair, hands wringing together in her lap. “I suppose that you have a point,” she said finally, her voice softer than normal. “Lucius and Draco…”

She didn’t finish her sentence, but she didn’t have to. Fleur understood.

“But worrying yourself sick isn’t going to help,” the witch said eventually, very calmly. “It will only make you feel worse. Have you spoken to Barty about this?”

“Spoken to ‘im?” Fleur barked a laugh, which only made her throat burn more. “’E would not care about what Mercier is doing. It is the same thing ‘e and the others are pushing to accomplish!”

“You have more power than you realize,” Narcissa reprimanded her sharply, her eyes glinting like ice. “You two are to be married. Your family a part of his. Consider asking for his help.”

“Asking for ‘is ‘elp?”

“At the very least, he will think about it, and that should be enough to make him consider it,” Narcissa sighed. “He is going to be your husband, for better or for worse. Soul bonded, even. I have seen marriages go poorly due to lack of communication. If you want him to take this worry seriously, then you need to speak with him. You’re a clever girl, you know how to get him to do what you want.”

“Clever,” Fleur snorted. “If that were the case, I would not still be ‘ere.”

“Of course he is not going to let you go. He isn’t stupid, at least, not all the time,” Narcissa scoffed. “But I do think he will take your seriously. After what happened at the party, he has no love for Mercier. He might be willing to keep an eye out for him.”

It was at least worth a try, Fleur mused. She would be a fool not to consider advice so freely given and Narcissa did seem to be in a good mood today. Yet, there was doubt that lingered in her thoughts. Would he listen to her? Actually listen to her? The look he sent towards Mercier could not be mistaken as friendly. Barty didn’t trust him, she remembered all too suddenly.

That distrust lit a spark of hope in her chest, and a plan in her mind.

“Oh, you’ve got bile on the dress,” Narcissa grumbled, taking out her wand, pointing it to the greenish-brown stain on the front of the dress. “ _Scourgify_!”

The stain disappeared immediately, and the witch gave a long-suffering sigh. She glanced at Fleur’s dress again, lips twisting into a slight frown. “You look thinner,” she stated. “I noticed at the party you didn’t eat much. Are you sure you’re not sick?”

“As I said before, I think I ‘ave caught a bug,” Fleur waved her concern off. “I am sure it is nothing more. This is usually the time of year that people get sick, non?”

“Well, in any case, you should take a Pepperup potion,” Narcissa suggested, and straightened. “I will have my seamstress take another look at the dress. The train needs to be hemmed again and the waist adjusted. In the meantime, don’t try to lose any more weight.”

“It is not like I am trying to,” Fleur grumbled in annoyance. “I am just not ‘ungry.”

She slowly made her way back to the room, catching her reflection once more in the mirror. She didn’t feel like a bride, as Narcissa began to undo the back. It wasn’t as though she hated the dress; it was rather pretty, but it wasn’t her first choice. None of this was her choice, aside from accepting the beautiful ring Barty slid on her finger.

It felt heavy on her finger, so much like a chain.

~

There was something enjoyable about evening time. The sun sank lowly towards the west, turning the autumn sky into shades of orange and red, with tints of violet. The shadows of the trees casted long, the silence of her hidden world allowing the sounds of nature to come alive. Birds chirped long into the distance, many of them having started the migration journey. Fleur thought, fleetingly, that it would be nice to join them.

At ease in the rocking chair, she leaned her head back against the wood. The creaking of the wood against the porch all but broke through the silence. The world continued on, with her as a mere spectator of it all. Her ring reflected the fading light of the sun in a shimmer of light. She thought of her upcoming wedding and allowed herself a small sigh.

It was going to happen whether she wanted it or not. The need to live outweighed what she truly wanted, if anyone ever bothered to ask her. The thought of her wedding alone was enough to make her heart skip a beat, her lungs constricting in an almost panic.

There would be no escape from a soul bond, not that she knew of. Barty would be a part of her till the day she died, even if they weren’t bonded. The wounds inflicted on her would heal in time, but they would remain scarred upon her soul. Fleur pulled at the wrappings on her wrist, suddenly too tight and constricting.

Why did this have to happen to her? She thought, and she found herself thinking that a lot. It was useless to think about it, but she couldn’t help it. The world was indifferent to people’s struggling. Life was unfair that way. She was tired, both physically and emotionally of navigating her way through this hell. Complaining about that, however, wouldn’t stop her wedding. It wouldn’t change anything that had happened.

In a perfect world, none of this would have happened. She would be with her family and friends. She would be Fleur Delacour, not “Fleur the veela” or “The veela girl”. There would be no war, no Barty or Dark Lord. But the world was cruel, Fleur knew this firsthand. She existed in a world crammed with cruelty.

Now, she was just a lost girl in a cruel world. There was a part of her she couldn’t get back. A little girl grown up too fast.

Her head throbbed. The pain felt like someone had taken a knife to her skull and proceeded to strike at it. She leaned her head to the side, hand coming up to rest against her temple to massage away at the pain. She willed the pain to go away. The rest of the world became detached. All she could focus on was the pain rooted deep in her head.

“Meow.”

Her eyes snapped open at the sound. The surprise momentarily startling her out of the pain. It lingered there, still pounding away at her skull, but her eyes were focused now on something else.

Perched on the steps to the lawn, eyeing her curiously was a small cat. Its blue eyes focused unblinkingly on her, its head tilted as the tail twitched. “Meow,” it offered again, as if in some form of greeting.

“’Ello there,” Fleur couldn’t help but stare at the cat, surprised by its sudden appearance. “What are you doing ‘ere? Not lost are you?”

She supposed she shouldn’t be that surprised. The Crouch’s vacation home was in the country and stray cats existed on just about every corner of the earth. Perhaps this was a farm cat who had wandered a bit too far off its property. There had to be other houses around, weren’t there?

“Mrow.”

The cat meowed at her again, its dark brown ears twitching at the sound of the wind rustling the leaves. The cat moved along the steps, running its body along before hopping up on the porch railing. Its long fluffy tail moved back and forth to keep balance, but its intense blue eyes never broke contact with hers.

She pitied the creature, Fleur thought as she stood up to introduce herself. Despite its fluffy coat, it clearly needed a bath. It was thin too, like it hadn’t eaten in a while. It meowed at her pitifully again, rubbing its head along her hand as she extended it.

It meowed at her once more, purring loudly. It reached up to its hind legs, asking for her to hold it. Without hesitation, Fleur took the stray cat into her arms. “Friendly, aren’t you?” she murmured quietly, as the cat rubbed its head against her chin. “You must belong to someone if you are this affectionate.”

Maybe the cat was lost, she thought as she stepped inside. The cat still in her arms made no move to protest, curling itself comfortably in her arms. She made her way to the kitchen, finding a saucer. She set the cat down on the floor, where it immediately began to brush against her legs. Carefully walking over the loudly purring creature, she found the milk and poured a generous amount in.

“’Ere you go,” she set the saucer down to the fluffy cat. “Enjoy.”

The cat immediately stuck its face into the saucer, greedily drinking up the milk. Her eyes burned at the sight, but no tears fell down her face. How hungry this creature must have been, she decided, noting the ribs again. Wherever this cat came from had not been kind or loving. The width of the saucer wide enough to fit the cat’s face. As the cat energetically lapped at the milk, she realized it wasn’t a cat at all. It was just a little kitten.

Tears rolled down her face. First one, then two, and before she knew it, several more were falling. This kitten, all alone out there, purred even louder as it drank the milk.

She decided then and there that she was keeping the cat.

If Barty didn’t like that, she didn’t care. When he arrived home, he stared at the cat with an expression that mixed between surprise and disdain. The kitten, having just been recently washed, stared back at him defiantly. Daring him to judge it.

“What is that?” Barty asked her, not quite demanding, but there was a definite edge to his voice.

“A kitten,” Fleur answered simply, scratching the kitten behind the ears. “’is name is Berlioz.”

“And where did you find him?”

“Outside,” Fleur smiled towards the kitten. “I found ‘im all by ‘imself. So I ‘ave decided that ‘e will stay ‘ere.”

Barty stared at it a bit longer before shaking his head. “Fine,” he began, but made no move to interact with the kitten. Instead he wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin atop her head. “My mother had a cat when I was younger. She adored it, though my father couldn’t stand it. It would constantly get into his office and sit on his papers when he was trying to write. It would knock over his ink bottles and get ink everywhere just to get his attention.”

“And ‘ow did the cat get into the office?” she asked, her attention still focused on brushing the kitten’s fur.

“I would let it in,” Barty admitted, and though she couldn’t see his face, she knew he was smiling. “Until my father caught on and locked it. But the cat would just sit there and rattle the doorknob until he relented and let it in.”

“’Ow amusing,” Fleur shook her head, the kitten pulling its head away to then nibble on her finger.

“Narcissa was here earlier,” Barty ignored her dry reaction, his hand reaching up to play with her hair. “I can’t wait to see you in that dress on our special day.”

He kissed right behind her ear, brushing against the sensitive spot so that her breath let out a hitch. “Is the date set yet?” she asked, hoping to distract him for a while longer. Her stomach churned at the knowledge of what he wanted.

“December fourth,” Barty said without skipping a beat. “Still early enough so that it won’t interfere with people’s Holiday plans. Narcissa’s going to be throwing you a bridal shower next week. She forgot to mention it while she was here, so she asked me to tell you.”

He released her then, and Berlioz hopped off the counter to wander the rest of the house, chirping as he went. Those lips were at her neck now, pressing light kisses that sent a fluttering sensation to her chest. Those hands rested carefully around her midsection, a cage, but not suffocating.

She twisted in his embrace, placing her hand on his chest. “Not now,” she met his eyes, dark with exhaustion and adoration for her. She tried not to look away. “After dinner. Please?”

“Alright,” he said, raising his eyes. Like her, he too was unused by her sudden forwardness. She couldn’t remember when in the last week or so they had engaged in anything. He was often arriving home late, and whatever bug she had often made her uninterested in anything. “If that’s what you want.

She almost wanted to laugh. She wanted to scream and shout at him, at everyone, until her voice was heard above all of them.

More than anything, she wanted just one thing. To wring her hands around Mercier’s neck until he choked to death.

But Fleur never got what she wanted, so she simply leaned into Barty’s embrace without a sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may or may not have gotten the name Berlioz from the Aristocats.
> 
> So yeah, Fleur has a therapy cat now because damn it she needs something nice for once. Who cares if Barty doesn't like it. Honestly, some of the antics of cats I described were taken from my own experiences.I had a cat when I was younger who would rattle my bedroom door and meow until I opened it for him. We currently have a cat who will get on top of my mom's jewelry box, use his claw to pull the drawer open, and fling her jewelry to the floor. He is a genius, I swear. 
> 
> But anyways, I think Barty would be willing to listen to Fleur about her concerns. He doesn't trust Mercier, not after what he pulled at the party. At the very least, he will keep his eye out for the man. But as always, you can tell me what you think and share your headcanons and such. The wedding won't be for a few more chapters still, but we will have a bridal shower to look forward to! That will be a lot of fun for Fleur (not). 
> 
> Next chapter should be out by this Sunday. It's mostly done, just needs to go through editing and such. It will be in Adora's p.o.v! There was a reason we didn't see her when Apolline and Louis went to speak with Dumbledore. Until next time, I hope you guys are keeping safe! Thank you for reading and leave a comment if you'd like to! Bye!


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So chapter twenty-eight is ready! We have two separate points of view for this chapter, and its marked where the p.o.v's change. It's not an especially long chapter, but a few important things happen. 
> 
> I hope you all had a happy fourth! (to those who live in the U.S) mine was pretty boring; I spent most of it watching Netflix. I recently got my mom hooked into Avatar the Last Airbender, and we are now on the series finale. Honestly, I find it funny how much she's enjoying it considering she and my dad banned Nickelodeon on our TV when I was little. Because they hated Sponge Bob and refused to let us even see it. My childhood was weird.
> 
> But anyways, I hope you all are staying safe out there! Thanks for all the support so far and enjoy the new chapter! Also huge thanks to Lord4Misrule for the really great edit you made for this story! If you haven't seen it, it's linked down in the comments for the last chapter! I grinned like an idiot for like an hour when I saw it, so thank you again! It really made my day!
> 
> I will leave a small TW for implications of sex, but nothing graphic. Just to be sure!

“Are you sure, Madame, that this is where you want to be dropped off?”

With an air of grace, Adora Dubois stood up from her seat of the Bulgarian Night bus. Although it was only midday, the bus still offered transportation to those of the magical community. However, the conductor, of young man in his mid-twenties, stared at her gob smacked. She smiled at him pleasantly.

“This is exactly where I want to be dropped off,” she said, grasping his hand gently. “Now, could you be so kind as to ‘elp an old woman off the bus?”

The young man flushed. “Of course, Madame,” he said, immediately taking the small case from her. “It would be an honor!”

He helped her off the bus, waiting until she was securely on the gravel road outside before handing her case back to her. “Merci, Mr. Andriev,” she patted the young man’s hand in appreciation. “I will be sure to let your employer know that people are in good hands under your care.”

The young man flushed, and with a tip of his hat to her, he stepped back onto the bus. It zoomed away with a grand flourish and she sighed. The bus was not her favorite way to travel, but it was one of the only lowkey ways of getting to her destination. To the non-magique, the dirt road in front of the forest appeared to be only a simple nature park, but the magical community knew better. For Adora, this place had once been a second home.

One she had not been to in over forty years.

Adora sighed, a feeling of trepidation falling over her. The last time she had been here, things had not gone well. Still, she squared her shoulders back and tossed her head, there was no other option but to come here. Not if she wanted to save her beloved granddaughter.

The forest parted as she made her way inside, but she paid no mind. The trees were absolutely silent, ancient as they were and older than many of the creatures inside. She ignored the eyes of the Dryads watching her, surprised by the arrival of an old veela woman. Yet the silence was misleading. Within the careless caress of the wind, she heard the whispers carried over. She would not be alone for much longer.

Deer watched her as she meandered down the old path, pausing in their actions with their dark eyes unblinking. Flashes of light overhead, twinkling in the early afternoon sunlight and chiming like bells, were fairies. No taller than a pixie, with their wings casting rainbow reflections on the ground below. They chattered to each other in their own language, a series of clicks and high-pitched squeaks. Yet, Adora knew they were talking about her.

Nervous as she was about being back here, there was no other choice. Memories of this place flashed before her eyes. Spending spring and summer here with her parents and sister; of the happier days before the war with Grindelwald. Her parents had been born here, married here, and brought her and her sister here to learn about their abilities and control them. She could remember the streams they would play in, the meadows they would lay in at night and watch the stars. The dances with the other veela.

Although not all these memories were pleasant. There were things in this forest that were dangerous, older than even the Dryads and Nymphs. The home of the veela was only one part of the massive forest. Several other creatures and spirts lived here. None of her children or grandchildren had ever ventured here and for good reason. This forest had once been the birthplace of her ancestor and deep in the forest, existed countless of restless spirits where the old castle once stood.

Most humans, non-magique or wizard, were not welcome here. Signs had been placed along the roads to the forest, warning those to not enter. However, she knew there were some wizards and witches who had taken up residence. Magizoologists studying the fair folk for their books, or perhaps preferring to be surrounded by magic and away from other humans. She didn’t know, or particularly care for that matter.

“ _Adora is back_ ,” a voice echoed around in her mind, soft as a babbling brook and yet, harsh as the north wind. “ _Adora is back_!”

“ _Why is she here_?” another voice joined in. “ _It has been a long time since she has been here_.”

“ _Adora has returned to us_!”

“ _Look at her, she’s so old now_!”

“ _Be quiet, Nerissa, you don’t look any better_.”

Adora smiled softly. She knew the latter’s voice better than anyone else in the whole world. A sound overheard caught her attention, and though her heart skipped a beat anxiously, she waved towards it. A falcon soared up above, sweeping its wings downwards until it landed before her. Only now, it wasn’t a falcon at all. Before her stood a woman with hair more silver than blonde, and whose face mirrored her own. Ersa. Her sister. Her twin.

She recalled as a child being immensely jealous of her sister’s ability to shape shift into the form of an animal. Only a few veela retained this ability, and out of her grandchildren, only little Gabrielle was able to do this. Now, the two sisters stared at one another. One with annoyance, and the other with exhaustion. Ersa narrowed her eyes, tossing her sheet of silver hair back.

“Forty years,” her older twin began, very crossly. “You have the nerve to show your face here after forty years.”

“Ersa, please,” Adora sighed, shaking head. “I would not come ‘ere and bother you unless it was very important.”

Ersa regarded her coldly. “The council has expressed to you before how unwelcome you are,” however, Adora thought she saw the tiniest trace of a smile. “So I must ask, why are you here now? What made you return to us?”

“My granddaughter,” Adora stepped forward, a worried frown replacing the exhaustion. “She ‘as been taken by a man.”

“Your granddaughter,” Ersa raised her eyes. “So, you had children with _that man_.”

“ _That man_ is my ‘usband,” Adora glared at her sister defensively. “And we ‘ave two beautiful daughters, your nieces, and six lovely grandchildren.”

Her sister made a face at the words she used to describe her family but remained silent. Adora heaved a sigh, irritated now, and pushed past her sister. She couldn’t say that she was surprised by her sister’s reactions, but the disdain wasn’t something she was going to put up with. Not when there were more important things at hand.

“Where are you going?” her sister followed, clearly surprised at her reaction.

“To the Council, as I just said,” Adora rolled her eyes, her feet silently pressing down on the autumn leaves without so much as a crunch. “I do not care if you ‘ate me, that is your choice. But I am ‘ere to ‘elp my granddaughter in what ways I can.”

“What happened?”

Adora slowed down, enough so for her sister to fall into step beside her. The tone was more curious than condescending. If she didn’t know better, she heard a touch of concern in there as well.

“She was at ‘Ogwarts, you know the magic school in Scotland, as the Beauxbaton’s representative in the Triwizard tournament,” she allowed the small trace of pride to lace her voice, before grief seized her old heart and it crumbled away. “And then during the third task, she was kidnapped. Britain and France believe ‘er to be dead. But we did not believe that for a second.”

She filled in the details for her sister, mentioning the Death Eater who had taken her, and the spy Dumbledore had planted in their ranks. Ersa remained silent, her face sickly pale. Her twin pressed her lips together thinly.

“She is my great-niece, then,” her twin said once Adora finished speaking. “I may not know her, but that is not a fate I would wish on any of us. Especially my family.”

“You ‘ave children?” Adora asked carefully. “Grandchildren?”

“My son, Yasen, and my daughter, Apollonia,” Ersa said proudly. “And I have several beautiful grandchildren.”

“Apollonia,” Adora echoed, the sound becoming lost in the silent forest. “And Yasen. After mother and father.”

Ersa glanced at her. “Yes, after our mother and father.”

“I named my youngest Apolline,” Adora smiled at the mention of the youngest of her twin daughters. “After mother.”

“So it appears we had the same thought process,” Ersa sighed, but she didn’t look annoyed. Instead, she appeared mildly impressed, which was no small feat coming from her. “I was just visiting mother’s grave when you arrived the forest. I figured it could not be a coincidence.”

“I do not believe in coincidences,” Adora tossed her head back. “Too many things ‘ave ‘appened in these months to make me believe that.”

“If what you say is true, that this man plans to bind himself to your granddaughter, then there is nothing you can do,” Ersa’s lips twisted in disgust, her hands wringing the skirt of her white dress. “You know as well as I do that a soul bond is permanent.”

“I will ‘ear what the council ‘as to say first,” Adora responded resolutely. “The fact that this monster knows what a soul bond is, is most troubling. No outsider is supposed to know what that is, so then I wonder ‘ow did ‘e discover Ravijojla’s work. When did that book disappear?”

Ersa shook her head. “Who knows,” yet even she looked concerned. “Things become lost or stolen. Or sometimes they just become forgotten. I do not even think that some are aware that it even went missing.”

Adora sighed. “I suppose that it does not matter now, my Fleur is going to ‘ave to suffer under that man’s care for a while longer,” just saying that made her clench her jaw in anger. “But that will not stop me.”

“Unless the council stops you,” Ersa added, side eyeing her warily. “What will you do then?”

They stood before the entrance to the veela colony, a sense of dread washing over her. The last time she stood here, Damien had been waiting for her at the entrance, awaiting the news. Only to see her leaving, completely shaken by what had happened when she last stood before the council of veela. Never in the past forty years did she think that she would have to stand before them again. The carved stone entrance, held closed by engraved flat rocks. Shining blue and silver emphasized the power behind it, and Adora heaved a sigh.

“No one can break my will,” she told her sister firmly, grasping the hand next to her. Ersa nearly jumped in surprise, but much to Adora’s amazement, she didn’t pull away. “I will do whatever it takes to protect my family. Even everyone ‘ates me, and no matter ‘ow many bridges I ‘ave to burn, I will protect them. If others get in my way, then I ‘ope the spirits ‘ave mercy on them.”

With her sister’s hand in hers, the stone gates swung open, and they descended inside.

~

“We need to talk.”

Fleur let out a deep breath, the words tumbling out of her mouth. Her chest heaved up and down, her mind still reeling over what had just transpired. Her hands placed on his upper body, lightly tracing his own heavily breathing flesh. A thin line of sweat sat between them, though she paid no mind to it, letting out a soft moan instead when he pulled out of her.

“I am serious,” she said again, trying to catch her staggered breath. “We need to talk.”

Barty looked down, his eyes still heavy and dark. “What about?” he asked, voice low and just as breathless. “You can tell me, _ma princesse_.”

Fleur blinked, and perhaps a few months ago, she would have been taken aback by that nickname. Now, she ignored the term of endearment. “It is about Mercier,” she continued, and at the mention of his name, she internally smiled in triumph. She had his attention now. “I do not trust ‘im.”

“Well that makes two of us.”

“I am serious,” she frowned, squirming out from under to sit up properly against the bed. Her hand fell to his, grasping it with her cold fingers. “’E is not someone to be trusted. You know this, Barty.”

“I don’t disagree with you,” Barty replied, running a hand through his tousled brown hair. Only a short while ago, her own hands had run through them as he “made love” to her. Waking her up from her late afternoon nap with his mouth at her neck. Taking her slowly, so deeply that she saw stars. Her body tingled pleasantly, much to her disgust. Now, he observed her inquisitively. “But he is working for the Dark Lord and I will make sure he won’t get to you.”

She shook her head. “It is not me I am worried about. I know that you will not intentionally let ‘im near me,” Merlin help her, she wanted to throw up after saying that. Even though the words were true. “It is about my family. I am worried for them.”

“If they have any common sense, they will not defy the Dark Lord when he eventually takes France,” Barty sighed, squeezing her hand in an attempt to reassure her. She did not budge, and he knew this. “Come now, darling, you have me now. Isn’t that enough?”

Enough? No, it was not enough. It would never be enough! That’s what she wanted to say, but instead, she gripped his hand tighter. “They are my family,” she continued on, scooting her body closer to his. “Just as you will be soon. They will be your family too.”

“I highly doubt they will see it that way.”

“But it is ‘ow I feel,” she pressed her body close to his, her thigh grazing against his. Her other hand came to rest on his shoulder, carefully squeezing the muscle there. She kissed the spot she brushed over. “We are to be married soon, bonded in a way that most people cannot comprehend. That is why, I want to ask you for something.”

“What is it?” he asked cautiously, his gaze boring into hers with such intensity, but once again she did not look away. “You can ask me anything, darling.”

Except for letting her go, but he didn’t have to mention that. She tossed her hair back, the shine of it catching the glow of the lights. “I want you to promise to ‘ear me out first,” she started. “Please?”

“You have my word.”

“I want you to promise me, that when we are married, you will not ‘urt my family,” she held a finger to his mouth, preventing him from interrupting her. “That means my parents, my sister, grandparents, and the rest of my family. That you will protect them in what ways you can, be it indirectly or not. I know that this is a lot to ask of you; you do not know them, but it would mean a lot to me.”

Barty stared at her disbelievingly, the words escaping him for once. Eventually, he regained his senses, wetting his lips as he blinked quickly. “You would ask me to go against the orders of my master, just to keep a small group of people safe,” he looked to her with skepticism. “That is a lot to ask me for, darling.”

“I know,” she replied without missing a beat. “I know that it is a lot to ask. But that being said, you ‘ave said that you care about my ‘appiness. Is that still true?”

“Of course it is,” he gripped her hand still in his. “You know it is.”

“If you could look after them, in any way you can, it would make me ‘appy. I could rest easier knowing that I am not leaving them completely defenseless,” she lowered her eyes, pressing herself closer to him. She traced his shoulder blades lightly, murmuring softly. “If you can do this to me, I will offer my own promises.”

“And what would that be.”

“Me,” she looked him square in the eye. “If you can protect them, and me, then I will give myself to you. I will not fight you, not when it comes to important matters. I will not try to leave you. I will be yours, as you will be mine. That is what I promise to you, and I do not break my promises.”

“You did back at the giant colony,” he leaned closer to her, cool breath sending goosepimples over her flesh. “You attempted to run away. How can I be sure that you will not do that again?”

“Because those are my vows to you. My wedding vows,” she released his hand, reaching to cup his face gently. “And because I love my family, I will not jeopardize their lives. And because I need you, I will not break my vows. I will not fight you. I will stay true to you and do what I can to protect you. We will be together always, just as you want. Through sickness and in ‘ealth.”

“You willingly offer that, just in exchange for their safety,” Barty sounded completely perplexed, as if her words didn’t fully register with him. “Those are some vows, darling. Are you sure you are prepared to make those?”

“Yes,” she responded immediately. “Without a second thought.”

“All so you can protect your family,” he repeated absently. “The family you haven’t seen in months.”

“I love them,” she glared at him, hotly. “It does not matter if they are far away, or that I ‘ave not seen them in months. It does not matter if I do not see them ever again. I will love them, and try to protect them, till the day I die.”

He stared at her, completely taken aback by her words. She sighed, brushing some wayward hair out of his eyes. “I only ask this of you, darling. Just keep them safe in what ways you can. If it is indirectly, I can accept that gratefully,” she held his gaze deeply. “I will not break my vows, Barty. That is my marriage oath to you.”

He took her hand away from his face, pressing it over his chest, right where his heartbeat. “If we are on the subject of vows, then I might as well tell you mine,” he took a breath, carefully choosing his words. “Even though I don’t know them, I will do what I can to look after your family, however much I can. I will protect and provide for you. I will be true to you, and never leave your side.”

She nodded, taking in the words. Marriage vows were not to be taken lightly, especially in their community. She’d been to wizard weddings before and knew full well that in many of these events, ancient magic was invoked. Not quite the same as an Unbreakable Vow, but still just as serious. For him, she meant every word she said.

“I will not leave your side,” she repeated, wrapping her arms around his neck to pull herself into his lap. “I will uphold those vows for as long as I live.”

He held her warm body close to his, wrapping his arms around her. A hand tucked under chin, tilting it up to look in his eyes. “I will uphold my vows, as long as you honor yours,” his lips trailed down her neck, an involuntary shiver running down her spine. “That I promise you.”

She would uphold her promises, no matter how hard her heart ached at the thought of relinquishing more of herself to him. Yet she did not promise her love to him. That was the one thing she would have all to herself.

His kisses became firmer against her neck, teeth lightly nipping at the sensitive parts of her skin. Her skin burned hot at his ministrations, her lower body tingling in excitement. She hated how her body reacted, but it was nothing she hadn’t done before. She promised herself to him, the same way he devoted himself to her. Hopefully, it would be over soon so she could return to her nap.

She didn’t fight him as she was pushed back gently into the bed. He loomed over her, placing delicate kisses down her body, leaving a wet trail in their wake. A soft moan escaped her as the bane of her existence kissed her inner thighs, her legs twitching when his breath hit her womanhood. She stared upwards, unable to see what he was about to do.

His love for her was selfish. Yet perhaps it had its uses after all. If this was what she had to do to save her family, then this was the only way. She was playing a dangerous game, but she knew how to play. The Dark Lord and his followers expected her to be a simple veela, who spread her legs for any man. Not someone who would do what she could to protect those she loved.

Yes, she could play. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That is a huge promise Fleur just made. For anyone who thinks that Barty was a bit quick for agreeing, he does know how much her family means to her. For Fleur to make such a promise to him, even saying that she would still uphold her promise even if she never saw them again, speaks volumes for her. So he knows she isn't lying. Now we will see if he does actually uphold that promise. They aren't married/bonded just yet, so we will see.
> 
> Also for anyone wondering where Berlioz is, he is still there. They just don't let him into the room when they are busy. 
> 
> I also have this song in my head, and I think that it fits Fleur in the situation. While the song is about Cersei Lannister from A Song of Ice and Fire/Game of Thrones, I still think it fits. I'll leave the link here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D-FaS085K5I
> 
> We will see in upcoming chapters what Adora is going to do with the veela council. Let's just say that there are few things that she has not shared with her family. Although Harry Potter veela do not have shapes shifting abilities (that we know of), so I took it from Slavic mythology about veela. So I headcanon that it is a rare ability. Luck Gabrielle is the one in Adora's family who has it!
> 
> Well, I think that's it for now. I hope you all enjoyed! Leave a comment if you'd like and I'll see you all sometime later this week. Bye!


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Can you believe we are one chapter away from having thirty chapters in total? I am amazed we have come this far and more drama is about to unfold. We're still a few chapters away from the wedding and I do have some of that chapter written out. A lot happens and I am super excited to reveal what is coming. Of course, things don't get easier for Fleur. By the contrary, I would say that things are about to get worse.
> 
> No trigger warnings needed for this chapter, but thank you guys so much for reading! You guys are so awesome and I really appreciate all the feedback. Happy readings!

“Iced teaspoons, ‘ow thoughtful of you, Lady Parkinson,” Fleur plastered a smile to her face, looking down at the gold metal spoons with the thought that these were absolutely useless. She kept the same high surprised sound she had been using since the last several gifts, even though she hated all of them. “They are lovely, thank you so much.”

Camila Parkinson smiled smugly, glancing over at a silently sulking Cassiopeia Selwyn, as though iced teaspoons were a better gift than a ceramic dessert stand. Fleur resisted the urge to sneer and instead turned her attention to the next present. Across from her, Edith Rosier watched her silently, anticipating Fleur’s reaction to her gift.

A gilded carafe. Even if it was pretty, with flowers painted into the glass, Fleur privately thought that it was completely useless as well. Still, she smiled and thanked the older witch, who proudly squared her shoulders back and relaxed into her spot on the love seat. Euphemia Rowle, who was sitting next to her, frowned slightly. Apparently she believed that her own gift of marble coasters weren’t good enough.

Honestly, what was with half of these women?

So far, Fleur noticed that there were three different reactions that these Pureblood women had. nonchalance, disappointment, and arrogance. Even Narcissa, sitting next to her on the cream-colored sofa, stared at everyone haughtily as they oohed and awed over the gold embroidered picture frame she gave Fleur.

“Tell me, Kendall, how is little Randolph doing?” Cassandra Greengrass resumed the conversation, after a lagging and awkward silence. “Is he walking yet?”

“My little Randolph is doing just fine,” Kendall Avery, Lloyd Avery’s wife, beamed proudly. “He isn’t walking just yet, but he’s gotten to the point that he can stand by himself without mine or anyone else’s help.”

“I can’t wait till Claude and I have our first child,” Aludra Bulstrode sighed dreamily. In the middle of her mother, Cassiopeia and her mother-in-law, Victoria, they looked like an odd trio. Cassiopeia was tall and thin, while Victoria leaned on the shorter side and was rather stout. “He thinks we’re too young and that we have plenty of time.”

“Better to start trying now,” Miranda Fawley added, pouring herself more tea in matter of fact manner. “You know what they’re beginning to say about Annabelle Yaxley. It’s been fifteen years and they still don’t have a child.”

If Fleur recalled correctly, Annabelle Yaxley had just gotten up to go use the restroom. Yet she wasn’t surprised at all to see these women speaking about her as though she wasn’t at the party at all. Still, she thought it was rather rude.

“Oh, don’t even say that,” Kendall shook her, her dark brown ringlets brushing against her high cheeks. “It took me and Lloyd ages to have our Randolph.”

Something unspoken passed between the women. Fleur leaned forward curiously, as they glanced at each other nervously. Even Aludra, just as brash and ill-behaved as her mother, looked away uncomfortably. Next to Fleur, Sakuya pressed her hand to hers in a show of comfort, her lips twisting to a small frown. Even she appeared displeased by the turn of conversation.

Fleur noticed out of the corner of her eye, that Frieda Travers gripped the hand of Miranda. She vaguely remembered that Sakuya informed her that the two were sisters. Frieda’s husband, Alden Travers, was put away in Azkaban for life. Her mother-in-law, Milburga Travers, wore nothing but black and claimed in their social circles, that her son was a hero. Fleur privately shivered in disgust. Yet apparently no children had been brought to their family either.

“She miscarried right after her husband was put away,” Sakuya whispered in her ear, low enough that the dull faced woman a few feet away couldn’t hear her. Fleur followed her gaze to where Euphemia Rowle sat, engaging in a quiet conversation with Morgana Flint. “And Euphemia? She had just given birth when Thorfinn was put away. Their daughter Regina has never met her father; she is a year older than my Lyra.”

Fleur nodded, unsure of what to even say. These Pureblood women, many of them the matriarchs of their families, carried a recurring trend. One child, she noticed. Many of these women only had one child, or in the cases of some, didn’t have any at all. She shifted in discomfort at the idea of many of them having fertility issues. Or at the very least, their husbands did. Apparently trying to have more, like the Weasleys, was considered a wasted effort.

Across the room, her eyes fell upon the two old women covered in black. Translucent black veils covering their faces, but she could still see their cold hard eyes as they silently took in the conversation. Milburga Travers and Hilda Avery, whose husbands had long ago passed, and they were now only brought out for parties and other events. Old with creaking bones and silent long-suffering. Personally, Fleur thought they looked like vultures, waiting for death to come.

“Perhaps we should speak about something more lighthearted,” Elizabeth Macmillan interrupted nervously. “I mean, it’s not very festive talk for a bridal shower, is it?”

“I agree,” Cassandra Greengrass set down her teacup, with a touch of firmness in her voice. “Let us speak of this dreary subject no longer.”

“You’re one to talk, Cassandra. You had two daughters within two years of each other. And it didn’t take you that long to conceive either,” Priscilla Crabbe sneered, and turned to look at each woman in the room. Aside from Fleur. “And goes for you too, Cassiopeia. Five children, and your youngest child when you turned forty!”

Either there was one child, or at the very least, two. Fleur watched as Edith Rosier eyed Priscilla warily, as if she were afraid she’d be targeted next. Yet out of her two sons, only one of them was alive. Victoria Bulstrode gulped, silently glancing between the Crabbe matriarch and the door. With a sigh of boredom, Camila Parkinson waved herself with her fan, watching the scene go down with barely concealed amusement.

She supposed she should be used to this by now. This wasn’t the first time Fleur had been around gossiping women before. Yet even her maman refrained from being around women like this, and she had made sure her daughters did the same. It was strange, she couldn’t help but think. A majority of these women were related to one another in some way, but they treated each other indifferently. Only uniting when it suited their needs or interests. In a way, it was every woman for herself.

And she hated that.

Then, the sound of popping bones and cracking limps took her attention. Every woman in the room went silent as Hilda Avery gripped her long-polished cane. Her eyes burned coldly. “Enough of this. We did not raise you proper Pureblood ladies to behave in such a manner,” Hilda’s voice cut sharply, and each woman lowered her head, save for a few. Those cold eyes fell to her, and Fleur jutted out her chin defiantly. The old woman narrowed her eyes. “The half breed is more behaved than you. Disgraceful.”

Fleur bit her cheek as many pairs of eyes shifted in her direction. Yet she remained composed, sitting stiff as a board.

“If a half-breed is better behaved, then I worry for the future generations of Purebloods,” Milburga added contemptuously. “I can only hope that I am wrong to have worried.”

Silence fell upon the room. Many of the women now too ashamed to even speak, so they busied themselves by drinking their tea. Aside from Narcissa and Sakuya, who had remained silent throughout the whole affair.

“Open another parcel,” Narcissa constructed her softly. “You’ve still got a few more to open.”

Nodding, Fleur took another finely wrapped package, placing it carefully into her lap. She slowly tore open the paper, opening the box it was placed in to pull out a set of champagne flutes. She smiled politely. “These are lovely,” she started, looking to the witch who had given them to her. “Thank you, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth Macmillan smiled nicely. “You are welcome,” she began, trying to get the conversation flowing again. “It is not everyday we have weddings to attend. Not when so many of our children are still in school.”

“Edith, is your son Felix ever going to settle down? He’s going to be twenty-seven by January,” Agnes Goyle looked to the hard-faced older woman. “He is still in Romania, yes?”

“I ask him that every time I write to him, and his answer is always the same. He’s too busy studying his dragons,” her lips then curled unpleasantly. “He spends far too much of his time with that Charlie Weasley.”

There was something there that lingered in her voice but remained unsaid. The name Weasley however, made many of the women sneer, with the exception of a few. Fleur set the champagne flutes aside, the image of the red haired and freckled faced children crossing her mind. The one who had shouted at her to attend the ball with him nearly made a smile cross her face. If only he hadn’t run off so she could have politely turned him down. Poor nervous thing.

“Have I missed anything?” a new voice cut in, and Annabelle Yaxley returned to the conservatory’s small gathering. She took her seat next to Morgana Flint and smiled.

“Not at all,” Miranda Fawley answered quickly. “In fact, I believe the veela was about to open your gift next.”

Fleur took the hint and immediately took the older witch’s gift into her arms. “Oh my, this is pretty,” she took out the fragile crystal dish, wondering to herself where exactly she was going to put this in her home. The home itself wasn’t nearly as fancy as Narcissa’s, so it would stick out. At least the marble and wood engraved cutting board Agnes Goyle gave her had some use. Still, a present was a present and Fleur smiled at the witch. “This is beautiful, I love it. Thank you.”

She set the crystal dish next to Priscilla Crabbe’s countertop wine rack and Milburga Traver’s ceramic appetizer plates. Stuff she was sure she would never use, considering she and Barty weren’t the ones throwing parties. How would they throw one, taking into account that most of the wizarding world believed them to be dead?

She opened the remaining gifts slowly, the conversation taking a more appropriate route. The last six gifts were as similar as the others, though no less fitting in theme. Aludra Bulstrode’s cheese knives, Frieda Travers’ linen napkins, Hilda Avery’s domed glass server, Miranda Fawley’s embroidered guestbook, Kendall Avery’s serving platter, and Victoria Bulstrode’s china measuring cups. She set the linen napkins atop Cassandra Greengrass’ ring dish, mindful not to lose them. The thought still swarming in her mind how exactly she was supposed to use all of this.

“Here, mine is last,” Sakuya placed the heavy parcel into her lap. “I think you will be pleased by it.”

Her eyes glimmered in a way that Fleur knew the woman understood.

She patiently tore open the parcel and every woman in the room gasped at what she pulled out. The gift was heavy in her arms, and she imagined it was probably very expensive too. The mother of pearl inlaid black lacquer jewelry box was beautiful. Smooth under her touch and out of all the gifts here, the nicest thing she had opened so far. The painting on the box glowed underneath the room’s light, allowing her to better see the woman with a parasol walking on a bridge, kneeling down to gaze at the lilies in the pond.

“I brought this from my last visit from Kyoto,” Sakuya began pleasantly. “I thought it would make a nice gift for someone, and now that this occasion has arisen, I believe that you should have it.”

Even Narcissa’s face fell at the sight of the expensive gift. She glanced at her own gift of the picture frame and frowned.

“Sakuya, you shouldn’t have!” Cassiopeia Selwyn squawked in disapproval. Next to her, Aludra scowled in envy. “You barely know this girl! You should have given that to Lyra, or my own daughters!”

“The gift is mine to give to whom I wish,” Sakuya ignored her sister-in-law’s complaint, ever the epitome of grace. “And besides, you know my Lyra hates wearing jewelry. What would she want a jewelry box for when she has no need for it? And your daughters have more than enough jewelry boxes, wouldn’t you agree?”

Cassiopeia breathed in deeply, but one look from Narcissa made her remain silently. Fuming to herself at the fact that she couldn’t have such a nice and thoughtful gift. Fleur smiled at the older witch. “Thank you,” she said, with a real smile this time. “Thank you so much, it’s beautiful. You shouldn’t have gone to all that trouble.”

“It is not trouble,” Sakuya smiled, shaking her head. “I only thought it should be given to someone who will appreciate it.”

She grinned at the subtle insult to the witch’s sister-in-law and her niece. They still sat in their corner of the conservatory, completely astounded by Sakuya’s actions. The other women leaned closer to get a better look, impressed by the pretty Japanese woman on the box’s cover, who gave them a smile as they looked to her. If she knew the woman better, Fleur might have given her a hug.

“It has secret compartments to,” Sakuya added while all the other women were distracted. “If you have things you want to keep private, then this would be the perfect place to keep them.”

Hidden compartments, Fleur took a long look at the box. Perfect for keeping things she wanted hidden, though for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out what that would be. Nothing she owned aside from jewelry would even fit in here. Yet she’d be a fool to ignore what the witch was implying. If she needed to, other useful things could be kept in the box.

“Merci,” she said again, not breaking eye contact with the witch, and then corrected herself. “I mean, thank you.”

Sakuya smiled softly. “ _Yokatta_ ,” she said, and then added. “I’m happy to be able to help you.”

Fleur set the box down on the table gently. “I am sure it will come in ‘andy,” she added, and reached for her teacup on the table. Still warm, and she restrained herself from grimacing at the taste. “This is a nice little party, do you not think so?”

“It is,” Sakuya glanced towards the other women, now returning to their seats. “Though I think I might have made some of them very jealous. My Yuletide gifts better be good this year or there might be blood.”

Fleur thought she was joking, but the woman’s blank face revealed nothing. The wide table was now nearly covered in gifts, though most of them now were wordlessly being waved away by Narcissa to a nearby table with more room. Fleur could finally see the porcelain teapot full of strong black tea and the three-tiered serving platters full of tooth rotting sweets that made her mouth salivate. She wasn’t even hungry, but one look at a chocolate petit four glazed with strawberry icing.

She cut into it, the sweet fillings coating her tongue pleasantly. Nothing Narcissa had prepared could be considered subpar. The older witch only expected the best and anything less was not tolerated.

“If you eat those sweets, you’ll ruin your figure,” Aludra Bulstrode’s voice cut in, the fake sweetness barely covering the sneer that burned in her blue eyes. “Eat anymore and you won’t fit into your wedding dress. What a shame that would be.”

Cassiopeia’s giggle was cut off by the cold silence. While a few of the other Pureblood witches smirked at the comment, they at least had the decency to not say anything or laugh. Aludra blinked but shirked back when the icy stare of Narcissa and her aunt were sent her way. Fleur watched as Sakuya’s normally warm deep brown eyes hardened into black ice. A few other witches, name Elizabeth Macmillan and Cassandra Greengrass stared disapprovingly at the sheer rudeness.

“Aludra, what a thing to say,” Camila Parkinson laughed in an effort to diffuse the tension. “She’s a veela. They probably don’t gain weight at all!”

Fleur frowned. That was untrue. She paid mind to watch her health as did a lot of other people. And even if she did have more weight, she deserved the same common decency as everyone else. She took another bite of the cake, making a silent point.

“Aludra dear, you know it’s improper to comment on another woman’s weight,” Cassiopeia attempted to back track, trying to appear as though she were an upstanding mother. “And veela don’t gain weight the way other people do. You know they have an unnatural ability to keep their figures.”

Fleur didn’t want to believe the ignorance of these women, but she was unsurprised. What would these women know about her culture? What did they know about her people?

Frieda and Miranda glanced to each other nervously, busying themselves by drinking their tea. Morgana Flint sighed impatiently.

“Honestly, let’s just move on,” she said, eying the mother and daughter distastefully. “Veela don’t gain weight the way normal people do. There, now let’s forget about what was just said.”

Priscilla and Agnes whispered to each other, looking from Fleur to Aludra. As if taking bets to see if Fleur would lunge across the room and slap the witch. Just to see if Fleur had a “veela temper” as the veela at the World Cup did.

“That is quite enough.”

Milburga Travers stood, to her full height of five feet. Though she was short, every woman in the room regarded her with absolute reverence and lowered their eyes, completely silent. The old woman, gripping her cane, slowly made her way to where Fleur sat in stunned silence. Knobbly fingers reached out to her face, tilting it up so Fleur was forced to meet her cold gray eyes. Without even speaking, and the light way she was grasping her chin, she knew the old woman hated even having to look at her. Even if she did so willingly and without invitation.

“This half-breed needs all the food she can get,” Milburga twisted her lips into the sour frown, disgust in her eyes. “Now that she is with child.”

Fleur nearly choked on her own breath, eyes widening to the size of bludgers. “Pregnant?” she echoed the old witch’s words, a short laugh escaping. “You must be mistaken, I am not pregnant.”

“I can see it in your eyes,” Milburga continued, and though she still looked disgusted, her voice softened considerably. “You are with child, half-breed and you should take care.”

“I am not pregnant,” Fleur argued back, shaking her head out of the woman’s grasp. “You are mistaken.”

She wasn’t pregnant. There was no way she could be pregnant. The very thought of being pregnant made her want to retch. She and Barty were normally careful, so there was no way that she could be expecting. No way in hell was she pregnant.

The early November rain tapped against the conservatory’s windows the room completely dead. Every witch in the room stared at her, the gears in their minds turning. Aludra Bulstrode’s smirk fell from her face, jealously replacing it. Fleur’s hand immediately flew to her stomach, the thought rolling in her mind.

When did she last have her period?

“That is quite a statement, Milburga,” Narcissa said softly, looking from the old crone to Fleur. “I wasn’t aware you had the abilities of a seer.”

“I have been around for a long time, Narcissa,” Milburga turned to glare at the younger witch. “I know a pregnant woman when I see one.”

Fleur shook her head. “I am not pregnant.”

“I think you are,” Milburga eyed her as though she were an unruly child. “And I would suggest taking a pregnancy test as soon as possible.”

“Where would even find-”

“I can get one,” Narcissa interjected, tossing her golden hair back. She glanced around the room. “But not now. This is not appropriate for a bridal shower.”

Milburga rolled her eyes, but she slowly made her way back to her seat. Fleur frowned, setting her petit four back on the table, completely uninterested in it now. A thousand thoughts raced through her mind. All conversation around the room faded, the blood roaring in her ears.

When did she last have her period? Why, oh why, had she not noticed she had missed last month? Yet that didn’t mean she was pregnant. It was normal for women to miss a period every now and then, right? She just had a bug, that was it. A bug that made her tired, and more irritable, and… oh shit.

“ _You are so screwed, Fleur_.” Her best friend Manon would say if she were here.

“ _You are so fucking screwed, Fleur_.” Her other best friend Sabine would say.

~

“This cannot be real…”

Fleur slumped against the wall of the bathroom, the stick clutched tightly in her hand. The cheery voice from the stick echoed around the Malfoy’s bathroom. So cheerfully that Fleur wanted to chuck it against the wall in disgust.

“ _Congratulations! If you are reading this, St. Mungo’s at home pregnancy tests are pleased to announce that you are exactly six weeks along. You conceived on the twenty-fifth of September. For more information, please contact a healer or schedule an appointment at St. Mungo’s_.”

Shit, shit, shit, shit shit!

She wrapped her arms around her legs, burying her face in her knees. Her stomach fluttered nervously, but she refused to even acknowledge it. No, she couldn’t. Not right now. This wasn’t supposed to happen; not when they’d been so careful.

Would he hurt her? Fleur went rigid at the thought, the fear gripping her heart in a vice. Would he hurt their child? Instinctively, one of her hands went to her middle, searching for a bump that was not yet there. What would Barty do? Clearly he didn’t want a baby, and she didn’t want to bring one into this world. Not like this. Not with him.

“Do you have the results yet?” Narcissa knocked on the door. “Come on now, don’t keep me waiting.”

Fleur wiped at her eyes quickly, slowly rising to her feet. The expression on her face said everything and Narcissa scoffed.

“So the old crone was right,” Narcissa scowled, her hands rubbing her temples as though she were developing a headache. “You’re pregnant. Merlin knows it would have happened sooner or later.”

“I can’t tell ‘im,” Fleur’s lip trembled, going nauseous at the thought. “I can’t.”

“Well you’ll have to tell him eventually,” Narcissa sighed. “You can’t think that not telling him is an option.”

“I can’t, Narcissa. I literally can’t tell ‘im.”

“He’s going to find out,” Narcissa glared at her. “When do you plan to tell him then? When you’re in labor? Don’t be stupid, the sooner he knows the better off you’ll be.”

“’E won’t like this,” Fleur countered, her hand pressing her stomach as if that would protect her. Them. “’E does not want a baby.”

“Well if he didn’t want one, he should have been more careful,” Narcissa sighed impatiently.

“’E will ‘urt me to get rid of it,” Fleur shuddered, pressing her hand firmly on her stomach. “Do you think that I can bring a baby into this world? Like this? With ‘im of all people?”

Narcissa fixed her with a pointed look. “I don’t think he will do anything untoward you and that baby,” she looked at Fleur’s midsection sharply, as if she could see the fetus growing inside. “The fact you were able to get pregnant so soon in comparison to many of the other Pureblood witches here is impressive. For many of us, it took years of trying to conceive. For my husband and I, it took us six years.”

Fleur turned away. “And ‘ow is that supposed to make me feel any better?” she asked, without a hint of any humor. “You think I can bring a child into a world where I cannot even leave the ‘ouse by myself? Where their existence will be concealed until you Death Eaters think you ‘ave won the war?”

“He loves you, in some rather strange way,” Narcissa said quickly, pursing her lips together in thought. “He has promised to protect and provide for you, so I don’t think he will hurt you to get rid of the baby. Considering there are less of us with each generation, I think he would reconsider before doing anything.”

“’Ow can you be sure?”

“You made your marriage vows with each other, haven’t you?” Narcissa asked firmly. “You cannot be foolish enough to not know that oaths are a serious thing. Bad things happen to those who break their oaths.”

Whether it happened immediately or after many years, bad things followed those who broke their vows. Still, it didn’t do much to reassure her racing heart. Even if Narcissa brought up an important point. Her thumb rubbed over the non-existent bump, fully aware that before too long there would be no way she could hide this from Barty.

“Barty did promise those things to me,” Fleur said, more to herself than to Narcissa. “But I do not know if I can go through with this.”

What kind of life would their child have? If the Purebloods already disliked her, even though she was about to be the new Crouch matriarch, what would their reactions be to the child of a Pureblood wizard and a veela witch? She could see it now, and she knew they would have no easy path in life. She was hardly allowed in their social circle, only viewed as Barty’s docile little bride. His wife he won through their own deranged politics.

“ _I’m sorry_ ,” she said to herself, as if the fetus growing inside could hear her. “ _I’m so sorry_.”

This was partly her fault, she thought. She recalled the night of her birthday, that release of pent up frustration and they got, well, carried away. Now, she had to deal with the consequences of their actions, and that wasn’t fair for either her or their child.

Fleur bit the inside of her cheek so hard the metallic taste of blood dribbled down her tongue. She nearly laughed at the idea of fair. Nothing in this world was fair. Not even her own life, which just continued to get darker and darker. Becoming pregnant by her rapist just added onto the sequence of tragedies that had begun to consume Fleur’s life.

Because the world was cruel like that. She had known that for so long, even after all the times she tried to look away. It took and took, regardless if someone had nothing left to give. Yet a flutter of something hot and fierce pulsed in her veins. The hand on her midsection tightened.

Yes, the world was cruel and unkind, but she wouldn’t let anything happen to her baby. No matter whose blood she had to spill to protect them, she would do it with her teeth if necessary.

That, she noted as Narcissa eyed her, was a promise.

~

_7:00 pm, Paris, France, Ministry of Magic Headquarters, November 8 th_

“To Monsieur Mercier on ‘is recent achievement! To our new Minister of Magique!”

The clinking of glasses echoed within the wide black furniture filled office. A roaring emerald green fire burned in the hearth, allowing a strange glow to cast over the faces of the bureaucratic old men. The five French wizards laughed, a few patting Mercier’s carefully groomed shoulders in congratulations.

“This is the third time you ‘ave ran for Minister, and now it ‘as finally ‘appened,” the Head of the Department of Magical Creatures chortled, an overweight man by the name of Millefeuille, and pounded Mercier firmly on the back. “It is about time that old Dubois stepped down. Better to ‘ave someone with more…appropriate goals in mind to lead the country.”

“Oh come now, old Dubois wasn’t that bad,” an older wizard with sharp gray hair, took a puff from his cigar. “’E wasn’t much of a fan of Delacour. Things ‘ave become worse now that ‘is daughter is…dead.”

The way he said “dead”, with a small knowing smirk gracing his lips, revealed that he knew more than he let on. Beaumont, the Head of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, was not someone anyone had the desire to cross.

“Well no one cares for Delacour,” Marseille, one of magical France’s top prosecutors sneered, pouring more champagne into his glass. “I say its about time someone took care of that family. Tell me, Germain, who ‘as the oldest daughter?”

“Well, you cannot say that Louis Delacour did not produce beautiful children with that veela of ‘is. Their oldest, she is of age now, oui?” Fontaine, new Head of France’s Department of Magical Law Enforcement, sneered. “That little bitch is at a perfect age now. I wouldn’t mind waking up next to that little slut instead of my own wife.”

“Your wife is no looker,” Millefeuille barked a laugh. “No offense, old friend.”

“Oh, none taken. My wife is a cow.”

“The youngest princesse, ‘ow old is she now?” Fontaine asked, something unpleasant shining in his dark hazel eyes. “Ten now, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” Germain Mercier replied, smoke escaping from his own burning cigar. “My goddaughter just started ‘er third year at Beauxbaton’s. Still too young to be of more us but give ‘er another two to three years and she will be as lovely as her delightful older sister.”

The leers spread around the room would earn a look of disgust from any outsider. Fontaine sighed, almost unhappily. “The last veela I ‘ad slit ‘er own wrists. I ‘ad ‘er for less than a year. Not even fourteen yet. You know when young Princesse Gabrielle comes of age…”

“If you give the ‘ighest price,” Marseille snickered. “I might just bid against you. Thirteen is too young for me; I prefer more experienced women. ‘Owever, when you grow tired of ‘er then I would be glad to take ‘er off your ‘ands.”

“Oi, someone is coming!”

At Beaumont’s exclamation, all conversation ceased. Mercier nodded, a brief wave of his hand opening the heavy old door. A tall, built man with thick blonde hair and blue eyes stood in the entry way, a polite smile on his face. Mercier smiled pleasantly, motioning for the man to come forward. He procured an extra glass of champagne, holding it out towards the Auror.

“Sturgis Podmore,” the new Minister of Magic greeted amicably. “Do come in, celebrate with us! Tell us, ‘ow is old Fudge doing?”

“Fudge is well, if you take in all the ways he is trying to discredit Dumbledore and that Potter boy,” Sturgis smiled pleasantly. “But I must congratulate you on your recent victor, Minister.”

Mercier waved him off. “Oh, I am not officially Minister until January,” yet he smiled smugly. “But it is not too early to take action against all these Death Eaters, non?"

“So you believe Dumbledore then?” Sturgis asked carefully.

“Why of course,” Mercier raised an eyebrow, as if it were obvious. “’E is the greatest wizard of all time. Why would I not believe ‘im?”

“Germain, who is your friend ‘ere?” Fontaine asked, gesturing towards the broad-shouldered English man. “Come now, introduce us.”

Mercier wrapped an arm around Sturgis, as though they were old friends and led him towards the other four men. The heady scents of earthy smoke filled the room, and Sturgis was quite convinced that this would leave a smell that wouldn’t leave so easily. Mercier gestured towards the French man of various heights and sizes.

“Gentlemen, this is Sturgis Podmore. ‘E is an Auror from Britain assigned to be my personal bodyguard. A gesture of goodwill from Fudge. The man is convinced that all the Dumbledore and Potter fanatics will come and attack me next. Could you imagine? We are not even at wary yet, but I suppose one can never be too careful.”

Beaumont and Marseille exchanged a look, their eyes narrowed in suspicion. Fontaine took another long drag from his cigar, but Millefeuille smiled. “Well now, that is quite a gift. The Podmore family, eh? You would not ‘appen to be related to old ‘Ector Podmore, would you?”

“He was my grandfather,” Sturgis nodded, grasping the older man’s hand firmly.

“A good man ‘e was,” Fontaine added strongly. “A proper family man who knew where ‘is values lied.”

“Privately, of course,” Marseille said with a note of caution. “Never wanted anyone to think any less of ‘im. With the war with Grindelwald going, naturally.”

“Anyway,” Mercier cut in, glancing at his companions pointedly. “We will be sure to make our friend Sturgis ‘ere welcome, oui?”

“But of course,” Fontaine smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “We will do our best.”

Sturgis bowed his head, accepting the glass of champagne. Conversation turned to discussion of recent laws made by the still Minister Dubois. Sturgis stood back, silently observing the scene with hard eyes.

No one noticed the way his tongue snaked out quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, shit is about to hit the fan. I will be editing the tags soon in the next few days once this chapter has been out for a while. 
> 
> Honestly, I would not want to be surrounded by those sorts of women. Poor Fleur being the odd one out and now knowing that she's pregnant. You guys have no idea how badly I wanted to respond to your comments about it XD I've been hinting it for a few chapters now, but her being nauseous, moody, tired, and not hungry were the major signs. Fertility issues seem to run in these Pureblood families, seeing as how most of them are so small. Probably because of all the incest. How do you think Barty will react? Or will Fleur wait until she's in labor to let him know?
> 
> I did look for ideas for bridal shower gifts. For all the times these Purebloods claim they're better than the muggles, they do follow a lot of their customs. Aside from maybe a few items, the rest are completely worthless. Like what is Fleur going to do with cheese knives? Or a dessert dish? I literally got into a small argument with my best friend about iced teaspoons. Now when she eventually gets married I have her gift already picked out. 
> 
> Yeah, Walburga and Milburga have similar names, but I bet they'd be friends. Both are/were equally as nasty. Seriously though, fuck Aludra. I hate her and there is nothing redeeming about her. Her mom is essentially a Karen and she's a mini karen in training. Also Charley Weasley and Felix Rosier are keeping things on the down-low. It's not super relevant to the story, but do you think a Pureblood family obsessed with their image is going to be accepting of their remaining son being gay? 
> 
> The French Ministry of Magic is as corrupt as all the others are probably. These five men more than likely have those who owe them favors or are blackmailing other witches and wizards. They are not to be trusted. Seriously, the way they spoke of Gabrielle and Fleur made me want to puke. 
> 
> Yokatta is a way to say thank you in Japanese. If you have a better word or phrase for that, please let me know! Anyways, thanks for reading! You guys are awesome and I hope you are all keeping safe. Leave a comment if you'd like and I will see you all next time!


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Chapter thirty is here! I can't believe we've made it this far! I'll keep this short so we can get into the story, so thanks for all the support so far! You guys are awesome! I'm currently working on an update schedule, so I'll be updating the schedule in the story summary. What I'm thinking right now is Sunday and Tuesday, since those are the days I have off right now. If something changes, I'll let you guys know!
> 
> Well, without further ado, happy readings!

“Are you sure you want to do this? What makes you think they will help you?”

Despite Ersa’s concern, Adora tossed her sheet of silver hair back. Nearly a week of staying at her childhood home and now she finally would be standing in front of the veela council. Being here had given her the chance to meet her niece and nephew and her great-nieces and nephews. It had given her the opportunity to walk down memory lane. Her first stop had been where she met Damien for the first time. Injured, and needing of assistance, she knew then and there when she looked into his eyes that she was meant to be with him. Her instincts were very rarely wrong.

The memory of her husband brought a smile to her face, but it left quickly at the ill thoughts of what had occurred here the last time. Nothing but anger, sadness, and her being told to leave forever. Yet she would risk her banishment to try for her granddaughter’s aid. If they would not help her, surely they would help a veela in distress. Right?

Right?

“I ‘ave to do this, sister,” Adora said quietly, her bare feet cold against the stone ground. “You would do the same for your granddaughters, non?”

“Of course,” Ersa replied, her eyes burning with passion. “I am only concerned. The last time you stood before the council did not go well.”

“Oh believe me, I remember,” Adora laughed, though it sounded hollow in her ears. “And all because I wanted to marry a ‘uman.”

“It was more than that,” Ersa rolled her eyes. “And out of the two of us, you ‘ave the biggest temper.”

“Ah, well, there is no denying that,” Adora fought to keep the smile back. “And that ‘as not changed in forty years. They will ‘elp me in rescuing Fleur, or I will make them ‘elp me. The choice is theirs.”

Ersa stared at her in a moment of pure bewilderment. Then, her lips formed into a half smirk and she sighed in exasperation. “You ‘ave not changed at all,” her twin shook her head, silver hair gleaming white in the light of the moon outside. “You would start a fight just to get them to do what you want.”

“Well I cannot deny the offer is tempting,” Adora allowed a smile, chuckling at the idea. “But we shall see ‘ow the council reacts first.”

Silence fell between the two sisters, with only the chittering sounds of the fairies filling the quiet. Adora wrapped her arms around herself, hiding the nerves that fluttered around in her stomach. Her twin was a picture of ease, but Adora knew her twin better than anyone. The way her sister’s fingers rapped against her arms, her brow furrowing slightly, was a clear indication of how nervous she was.

“You do not ‘ave to stay,” Adora began, carefully. Her sister stiffened at the sound of her voice, taken aback by the question. Adora persisted. “You did not approve of my choices all those years ago, and I do not ask you to stand with me now. When I left, I left you behind too. I understand if you do not forgive me for that.”

For a long time, Ersa said nothing. She shifted on her feet, her deep blue eyes staring unblinkingly into the distance. She stared at the impressive three stone chairs on the dais in front, vacant and waiting for their occupants. Finally, she turned to Adora, her tone much softer than before.

“I am still upset with you, Adora,” she started, and her eyes were heavy with emotion. “Forty years is a long time and much has passed. We are not the same people we were all those years ago. We are old, and who knows how much time we have left in this world. So, as much as I am still angry with you, I don’t want to lose you again.”

Adora reached out, taking her twin’s hand into hers. “You never lost me,” she said quietly, her own eyes mirroring the unshed tears. “Not a day went by that I didn’t think of you.”

“But you still left,” Ersa pulled her hand away, letting it fall lightly to her side. “You turned your back on our people. You left with that man, knowing full well what the French Ministry did to us. What they did to our parents!”

“Damien did not do those things!” Adora glared, the mention of her husband igniting a flame that burned brightly in her chest. “’E is not responsible for what ‘appened! ‘Ow can a child be responsible for what ‘appened, Ersa?”

“It matters not if he was there,” Ersa seethed, a spark of red flame snapping into her hand. “Wizards cannot be trusted. Not after what they did here, what they did to this forest. Can you look at me and say that we still don’t feel the effects of what they did?”

Adora closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. It wasn’t Damien’s fault what had happened all those years ago; he was still a child like she was at the time. He wasn’t there for what transpired in her childhood home. The wounds inflicted on this sanctuary cut deep, still in the process of healing. Deep scars that would remain, but ultimately, they would heal. Time would go on and inevitably, some things would be forgotten. However, not by the people who still remembered.

“I remember,” Adora said, and the grief she still felt cut her like a knife. Her sister’s teary gaze mirrored hers. “I will always remember. They took so much from us, and that I will never forgive. Yet not all wizards and witches are bad. They rescued my Fleur once, when she was three, from being sent to a mill.”

Ersa flinched at the very word, her face stark white. “A mill?” her twin echoed, voice shaking. “She was almost sent to a mill?”

“They saved ‘er from a fate worse than death,” Adora pressed on. “My Damien and my son-in-law, Louis. They would go to the ends of the earth for any one of our family, because our love for each other will last till the stars fall from the sky.”

Ersa pursed her lips, refusing to meet her burning gaze. “The council will not see it that way,” she said, almost inaudibly. “They still see you as a traitor.”

“And what do you see me as?” Adora asked, her voice as hard as ice. “I am fine with being labeled as a traitor. But that will not stop me from finding whatever way I can to ‘elp my granddaughter survive.”

Ersa ground her teeth together. “For all the grief you have caused me, I am still angry. I said that before and I still stand by it,” yet she took Adora’s hand into her own lined one. “But, we are still family. You are my sister, my twin, and I still love you. I will always love you, even when I am angry.”

“Yet will you ‘elp me?” she squeezed her sister’s hand tightly.

The hand squeezed back just as firmly. “If I can,” her sister said, tossing back her silver hair. “But if you are asking me to commit treason, then I am not sure-”

“That is enough for me,” Adora cut her off gently. “This is my task and mine alone to bear. But knowing that you will be with me is enough.”

“Well, isn’t this a sight? Adora Delalune, come back to us after all these years.”

The two sisters froze as the space immediately became a blaze with flame. The dais easier to see now with the added alight and Ersa at once went to her knees. Adora stared defiantly ahead, her hands curling reflexively at her sides as the old faces appeared. The three moved as one from the shadows of the trees, their feet soundless against the earth. In a swift moment, they sat themselves down in their thrones, eyes unblinkingly focused on her. Their faces smooth as stone, yet their eyes betrayed how they truly felt.

Rage. Impassiveness. Scorn.

Kallisto, Menodora, and Anthousa. The oldest veela still alive and the leaders of this colony of veela. The last time she stood before the three, they had banned her for life. Now here she stood, her head held high and staring at them coolly.

“You have some nerve to return here after all these years, Adora,” Kallisto spoke first, lips curling into a sneer. “If I remember correctly, we banished you from ever stepping foot here again.”

“Your memory is still very much intact,” Adora said calmly. “You did, in fact, ban me from returning.”

“Yet you stand here before us asking for our help,” Anthousa added, almost scornfully. “We debated on whether we would allow you to plead your case.”

“But we are generous, and willing to forgive past misdeeds if one were to apologize,” Kallisto narrowed her eyes. “We might be even more willing to help if such an apology was given.”

“If you are looking for an apology, you will not receive one from me,” Adora lifted her chin, her gaze cold and unforgiving. “I do not apologize for my past actions.”

“You married a wizard,” Anthousa snarled, leaning forward in her throne. Around her, the air sparked and cracked. Her hair lifted by itself, as though flowing on an invisible wind. The woman’s ice-like eyes burned. “You turned your back on your own obligations. You and your sister were the last two descendants, at the time, that carried Ralitsa’s blood. You, a veela with a powerful bloodline, married a wizard of no distinguishable merit.”

“I married for love!” Adora interjected, raising her voice slightly. She tossed her hair back, squaring her shoulders. “And that it is the best reason in the world to why I left.”

“Yet here you stand before us with no shame, asking for our help,” Kallisto scoffed. “Thinking that we will give help to you freely.”

Surprisingly, it was Ersa who spoke up this time. She stepped forward, head slightly bowed and voice no softer than a whisper. “Another veela is in trouble,” she said, lifting her gaze to meet the council’s. “A descendant of Ralitsa’s line. Do we not have an obligation to our foremother to do what we can to assist her?”

“A quarter veela,” Anthousa brushed off the request. “We have never met her. Why should we risk our necks to help her?”

Adora bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from the itch to transform. The rage howled along her veins, screaming at her to slice their eyes out for daring to speak so candidly about her granddaughter. Yet she pushed it down. Slicing their eyes would not help her. Not in the slightest.

“But she is still a descendant of Ralitsa,” Adora pushed forward, glaring. “Both my daughters and all my grandchildren are. Do you want another branch of ‘er line to go out?”

“Ersa still has her family,” yet even Kallisto looked doubtful about this as she glanced towards Ersa, who stared back blankly. “She has children and grandchildren. Possibly great-grandchildren in the foreseeable future.”

“The great-niece is in trouble,” Ersa said quickly. “She has been kidnapped by a man. A Death Eater. Who knows what kind of torture she is being put through. If we do nothing, what it is to stop them from coming after us?”

“This forest protects us,” Anthousa snapped. “We will be fine.”

“You have never seen Death Eaters,” Adora shook her head, thoughts retreating back to the events of the first war. “If the Dark Lord wins, the rest of the world will be next. Do you think ‘e will object to seeing the younger veela put into mills? Or be bought and sold by wizards? What kind of life will these young veela ‘ave if you do nothing?”

“The Dark Lord is dead,” Kallisto rolled her eyes. “He will not come back.”

“’E is back,” Adora persisted. “None of us are safe now. Unless we do something, then we will all perish. If we do nothing, there will be no veela in the future. We will be extinct.”

Silence fell, so eerily that one could hear a pin drop. The council glanced at each other, holding a silent conversation that she nor Ersa were permitted to hear. Finally they looked back to the two sisters, Kallisto smiling unpleasantly.

“The Dark Lord is not back. There is no need to be concerned about that,” Anthousa spoke, leaning back into her throne. “However, are you even certain that your granddaughter is still alive?”

“Yes,” Adora nodded. “We ‘ave proof that she is still alive. That monster that kidnapped ‘er intendeds to make ‘er ‘is wife.”

“Well that is unfortunate,” Kallisto said, but there was no humor in her voice. Her eyes darkened. “Did he?”

“Rape ‘er?” Adora interrupted sharply, and even the three on the dais shuddered at the word. “I am sure ‘e did. Now she will be marrying ‘im, and ‘e will soul bond with ‘er.”

Another wave of silence fell between the five of them. At the very word, Adora thought the whole forest went silent, holding its breath in anticipation. The three council women’s eyes went wide with shock, and they turned to each other again.

“A soul bond?” for the first time, Menodora spoke. Her impassive face contorted to concern. “He knows about the soul bonds?”

“Yes,” Adora nodded. “’E ‘as Ravijojla’s journal. I know not ‘ow ‘e got it, but that does not matter. My granddaughter’s soul will be bound to ‘is. I ask now, is there any way to break it?”

“You know the answer to that, Adora,” Menodora shook her head. “Once a soul bond is created, it cannot be broken. Not even Ravijojla could break her bond.”

“Well I cannot sit by and watch my granddaughter suffer more. There is so much about ‘er power that I never got to tell ‘er. The use of the inner power, or even ‘ow to perform a mind link,” Adora blinked back the tears. “I felt ‘er use the inner power. My daughter and the rest of my family felt it too. It nearly killed ‘er.”

“There are ways to use it safely,” Kallisto began, but even she looked doubtful. “But it is dangerous magic. Once it starts, it cannot be stopped. Only till it runs its course will it end. But the cost of using it is potentially fatal. None of us are as powerful as Ralitsa was.”

“But my Fleur comes from ‘er line,” Adora shook her head. “She survived using it.”

“That was once,” Menodora said gently. “There is no telling if she will survive it again.”

As much as she wanted to disagree, Adora was not arrogant enough to do so. Her granddaughters were only quarter veela. They could not even transform into an enraged form. Even her daughters could only partially transform. When she felt Fleur use it, it rattled her to the core. She had to clutch onto Molly Weasley for support. Apolline felt it too, for she nearly collapsed into Louis’ arms. A sensation both great and terrible that left her dead tired. Just how her Fleur had managed to use it was a mystery.

“The veela of Ralitsa’s line are often some of the most powerful veela we have seen,” Menodora began. “Your family has an easier time using the Inner power. You used it yourself in France during the war with Grindelwald, is that true?”

“Yes,” Adora nodded her head. “The story is famous.”

“Your mother even laid waste to an abandoned fortress with her Inner power, just to save your father and the other captured veela. She used her will alone to knock it down and defeat the wizard who tried to capture her,” Menodora paused, and then frowned. “Your granddaughter will be soul bond to this man. If she senses he is danger, she can aid him even from a long distance. Amplify his power even. Yet, there is still much this man, and your granddaughter do not know.”

Adora tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

“Our bonds to each other, even though we are not soul bonded, are still equally as strong. If properly trained and focused, we can connect to each other from across the world. Although it is difficult and takes a great deal of energy. Even sending one message can drain you completely. Yet if you master this ability, you may be able to contact your granddaughter.”

“Who can teach me this?” Adora asked, looking between the three women. “Which one of you?”

“I can,” Menodora said passively. “But I do not offer this information freely. There will be a price to pay.”

“I will pay it,” Adora answered almost immediately, ignoring her twin’s protest. “Whatever it is, I will pay it.”

“Adora,” Ersa pulled on her arm, her own sharp blue eyes staring disbelievingly at Menodora. The older veela simply regarded the twins passively, not a single trace of what she was thinking or feeling showing. Her twin’s voice hissed in her ear. “Are you sure you-”

Adora tossed her head. “What choice do I ‘ave?” she fixed her twin pointedly. “If I knew where that monster was keeping my granddaughter, I would save ‘er myself. But I can’t, and if this is a way I can ‘elp ‘er, then I will do so without any regrets.”

“We are not as young as we used to be,” Ersa countered. “Would it not be better to ‘ave one of your daughters try it?”

Her sister had a point, but Adora thought of her own daughters. Artemia was still in Paris, looking after her small son, Marcel. Between caring for him and looking for Fleur, she didn’t have the time. And Apolline…

For a month after Fleur’s disappearance, her youngest daughter couldn’t even get out of bed. The light around her faded, leaving her eyes a dull slate gray and her skin chalky white. Her hair, so beautiful and shimmering, became ashen. Her emotional state left her vulnerable, and even though she had perked up much since then, she wasn’t sure her daughter was strong enough to do this.

Yet she was. This was something she could do for her daughter. The pain Apolline was currently going through was something unique that not even she could fully relate to. A mother losing their child, and though she had lost her granddaughter, it wasn’t quite the same. So she would do this for her daughter. If this happened to Artemia’s children, she would this. If it came down to it, she would sacrifice herself just to save her family.

Adora patted her twin’s hand reassuringly. “It is alright,” she smiled softly. “I can do this.”

“I will be there,” Ersa nodded, leaving no room for argument. She gave Adora’s hand another firm press. “Just to make sure you are alright.”

“If you are ‘ere with me, then I will be fine,” Adora gave a genuine smile. “It will be just like old times, eh?”

“Yes,” Ersa smiled back, more genuine than she had seen before in this past week. “Like old times.”

Whatever price she had to pay, she would pay it. If she could hear her granddaughter’s voice once again, she would give whatever she had just to hear her Fleur’s sweet voice. Whatever consequences came from that, she would bear them without a complaint.

No one could stop what she had to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not kidding, Adora would probably go to the ends of the earth just to save her family. Her past will be revealed as the chapters go on. Her relationship with her twin is kind of complicated. They love each other, but Ersa is kind of upset with Adora for leaving. The full story of what happened will be revealed soon, so be patient! This is stuff even Fleur and her sister and cousins don't know about. I do take a lot of inspiration from Tolkien's elves, so there might be parallels and stuff, but a lot of it is from my own thinking as well.
> 
> We will be seeing Fleur in the next chapter and though a lot of it is written, I can promise you a bunch of crap is about to be revealed. Bombs will be dropped, so stay tuned! Leave a comment if you'd like to and I will see you all next time. Bye!


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I hope you are all ready because a lot of shit happens. Like parts of this made me want to puke. So please take the trigger warning I am putting here very seriously. If any of you in real life see or suspect human trafficking, please, please report it. I kid you not how much research I've done both and school and on my own time that I have put in. It's beyond words how disgusting.
> 
> Little rant aside, I hope you guys are all safe and well. Thanks for all the support; I love hearing from you guys. Also your theories are so interesting and sometimes I can't even respond to some of them without giving spoilers for future chapters! But thanks so much for all the views and comments. You guys are awesome, so here's the new chapter.
> 
> Tw: Sexual assault/non-con touching of a minor. Please, please, take the tags seriously.

“Berlioz! What do you think you are doing! Get off that shelf!”

Berlioz simply regarded Fleur with his blue eyes, his tail swishing as she glared up at him. He squinted out into the distance, like a king surveying his kingdom and she was a mere spectator in all his feline glory. How he managed to get up on the shelf, however, was a mystery to Fleur.

He probably didn’t even think about how he was going to get down either, Fleur thought as she watched the kitten eye the ground below. She stood mid level at the height of the shelf, hands on her hips impatiently. Berlioz flopped onto his belly, rolling over without taking his eyes off of her and purred.

“Mrow,” he said in his squeaky kitten voice.

“Well meowing at me isn’t going to ‘elp you get down,” Fleur chastised, but she couldn’t stop the smile from growing on her face. “Come now, come ‘ere little baby, I will get you down.”

She frowned at the word “baby” and placed a hand on her stomach without even thinking. Baby. The very word made her heart skip a beat anxiously. She was going to have a baby and Barty didn’t even know. There was no way he could know, unless her Occlumency had failed her and he knew already. Yet, she knew that couldn’t be the case. While she wasn’t sure what his reaction would be, she had the idea that it wouldn’t be the sort of calm he carried about him now.

He seemed tired these days, as if he were traveling a lot. She didn’t know where he was going, but she had the suspicion it was Death Eater business that he wasn’t allowed to share with her. When she tried pressing him for more information, he simply kissed her and told her that she didn’t need to worry. That he was “taking care of it”.

Whatever that meant.

She couldn’t keep it a secret forever. Eventually she would start showing and he would be furious that she hadn’t told him sooner. Not that she was going to wait until she was in labor to tell him, though the image of that almost brought a smile to her lips. Almost.

She pulled Berlioz down from the shelf with relative ease, noting that he was getting a bit more solid now. The kitten in the past two weeks since arriving put on some weight. She could still see some ribs, but they were not as prominent as before. He purred in her arms, nuzzling into her chest affectionately.

“I might as well practice what I am going to tell ‘im,” she told the kitten, who simply squinted at her with his eyes. “It ‘as to be today. Now when I ‘ave the fire to do so. ‘E will be ‘ome soon, so I might as well bring up my courage.”

She brought the kitten into one of the house’s drawing rooms, checked outside to make sure Winky wasn’t nearby and took a deep breath. She turned back to Berlioz, who was now grooming himself and cleared her throat.

“Barty, I am pregnant.”

She wouldn’t sugar coat it. The sooner he knew the better and if he was tired, he more than likely wouldn’t do anything to her immediately. He would have time to think and so would she. It was unlikely that he would hurt her as she thought previously. As much as he didn’t seem to mind violence, there was a line when it came to her. As much as she hated the thought of him hurting innocent people, this line came in handy.

“Barty, I am pregnant,” she said again, to the kitten, who was now rubbing his paws over his ears to clean them. She sighed. “Am I really not that interesting to listen to, Belioz?”

Berlioz simply paused, blinked at her, and then returned to his bath. Fleur snorted. “’Elpful, very ‘elpful Belioz.”

The kitten chirped and jumped off the table she had put him on, walking over to rub his body against her shins. She sighed, reaching down to scratch behind the small kitten’s ears. He swatted playfully at her hands, and she laughed. The sound ringing in her ears. She wondered when the last time she had laughed like that was.

Still, it was nice to hear the sound again, however fleeting it was. She leaned back against the wall, watching as the kitten attempted to play with the loose strings of her shoelaces. The kitten meowed playfully, his nails scratching against the wood of the floor as she lifted her foot, letting the laces dangle to the ground.

“Life must be so easy for you,” Fleur murmured, a small smile gracing her face as the kitten played. “All you ever ‘ave to think about is when your next meal will be.”

Belioz only chirped in reply.

Fleur shook her head and leaned it back. Her head hit the wall with a dull thud. She watched the late afternoon sunshine pour in, dust particles fluttering down to the ground through the stream of sunshine that draped in. The cheerful atmosphere outside did little to ease the storm in her heart. Her head thunked against the wall twice more, just for good measure.

Only this time, Belioz hissed in surprise.

Fleur tore her gaze to the kitten, and her jaw nearly dropped at the sight. The floor had changed, the boards shifting around to the side to reveal old stone stairs. Berlioz’s fur stood straight up, his tail even fluffier now due to the low groaning sound the stairs made. Darkness lay before her, endless and deep to the bottom of the stairs.

She suddenly felt very stupid for not seeing it before. This house belonged to wizards, Pureblood wizards. Of course they would have secret rooms! Naturally Barty knew about this and had neglected to tell her. Arrogant bastard.

“Want to go explore?” Fleur prompted the kitten. “Well come now, we ‘ave nothing better to do till Barty gets ‘ome.”

Berlioz let out a hiss of protest but stilled in her arms once she took a step down. Carefully, considering there were no rails to guide her. She could feel Berlioz’s heart beating in his small chest, but she pursued downwards into the dark. Her silver glow lit the darkened passage, allowing her to see better. No dust littered the stairs, giving her the impression that Winky had been down here at some point to clean. What exactly was being kept down here, though, was a complete mystery.

Her shoes echoed against the stone stairs, ringing in her ears as they descended into the darkness. Her silver aura allowed limited lighting, casting eerie shadows to dance along the stone walls. Berlioz shivered in her arms. A draft hung in the air, carrying the coldness of winter and Fleur shivered in spite of herself. She clutched the kitten closer to her, allowing her own shudder.

“Who knows what is down ‘ere,” Fleur murmured, stroking behind Berlioz’s ears reassuringly. “Barty never told me about secret rooms. I feel like the wife of Blue Beard.”

In her native language, she whispered the horrifying tale to the kitten. How the Blue Beard warned his wife against going into a specifically locked room but gave her the key to it anyway. Naturally, the young woman entered the room and found the horrifying sight of her husband’s previous wives’ bodies. Although his new bride escaped her husband when her brother and father came to rescue her, killing Blue Beard, Fleur still found it unsettling. Even though Barty had failed to mention to her the secret rooms, she had the idea that he wouldn’t be entirely thrilled that she had found one.

Yet she was curious, and bored. Two combinations that never ended well. Still, there was no way she could ignore this. She couldn’t pretend to not know that there was a secret room. And besides, if she was going to be the new lady of the home, it was only natural that she knew.

“We cannot stay too long,” Fleur told Berlioz, whose tail tickled her cold skin as it swished around. “’E will be back soon. We will just ‘ave a look around, eh?”

“Meow,” was Berlioz’s tiny reply, which could have translated to: “You are crazy.”

Fleur’s heart nearly leaped into her throat when they suddenly reached the bottom of the stairs. Silver glow illuminating the landing, what lay before them was a passage. Dark and barely lit, she swallowed her nerves back and followed it. Despite looking as though it hadn’t been used in a while, it was remarkably free of cobwebs and dust. Old boxes and chests lined the walls, stacking upon each other. Perhaps this was a place the Crouch’s used to put away old things they didn’t need anymore. She noticed several paintings, their eyes following her in surprise. A few of them even shielded their eyes at the sudden presence of her light.

“Who is this?” one of the portraits asked, leaning forward in his frame. His black hair slicked back and just as shiny as his mustache. “I do not believe we have met before, young lady.”

“Waldemar, you know who this is. Barty told us, remember?” the portrait next to his, a beautiful woman, sent him a withering look. Her dark brown eyes burned cold in Fleur’s silver light. “This is Barty’s girlfriend.”

“Fiancé, Godiva, this is Barty’s fiancé,” a portrait from behind Fleur corrected. Fleur turned around sharply to see another woman whose eyes were sharp dark blue. The woman in this portrait adjusted her collar, staring down at Fleur as though she were eying a bug. “A veela, no less. My grandson is to be marrying a veela. My ancestors are rolling in their graves!”

“Calm down, Charis,” the man in the portrait next to Charis smiled, and Fleur thought he looked a lot friendlier than this woman. The man smiled politely at her. “Hello there dear, you’ll have to forgive my wife. She’s a bit sensitive.”

“Sensitive?” Charis snapped to her husband, face aghast. “Our grandson is marrying a veela, Caspar! A veela!”

“Well, what are you going to do?” Caspar Crouch retorted with a great sigh of exasperation. “Go tell his mother?”

“Not that that will do you any good,” Godiva Crouch said primly. “She already knows, and she doesn’t care.”

Fleur blinked, Berlioz squirming in her arms to be let down. She set the kitten down, stepping towards the portrait of Godiva Crouch. “Barty’s mother’s portrait is down ‘ere?” she asked, feeling this woman would be the least rude to her.

“Of course, dear girl,” Godiva answered, gesturing to further down the hall. “All our portraits are down here. Well, except my grandson’s, but considering his and my great-grandson’s relationship, well, I’m sure you know.”

“Oh I know,” Fleur muttered darkly. “I know alright.”

“Barty always was a workaholic,” Waldemar said in the same sort of long-suffering way Caspar spoke, but with a warm fondness in his eyes. “He had the Crouch ambition.”

“That is my son you are talking about,” Charis snapped angrily. “My only child who didn’t disappoint me.”

“Her daughters made their own way in the world,” Godiva informed Fleur, with a tone that suggested that while she didn’t approve, there was an acceptance there that she couldn’t change anything about their choices. “Endora married a half-blood with a muggle-born mother and Aradia never married at all; she became a healer instead.”

“And your son broke our great-grandson out of prison,” Waldemar told Charis quite disapprovingly. “For someone who put so much stock in the law, he certainly didn’t have a problem breaking it for his own convenience.”

“Well if he didn’t break Barty Jr. out, our family line would have died,” Charis said nonplussed, polishing the great shining opal around her neck and sighed. “Not that it matters now. Our family will be polluted with all the half-breeds this veela will push out.”

Fleur’s jaw dropped in shock before she had to remind herself that these portraits didn’t know. Aside from Narcissa and possibly Sakuya, no one else knew. Unless the women at the bridal shower went about and gossiped this information to their husbands. Well, the ones who still had husbands to gossip to, anyway.

“So, where is Elowen’s portrait?” Fleur asked, trying to sound casual. “It’s nearby?”

“It should be,” Godiva answered, nodding. “Unless it’s been moved recently. She hasn’t come to visit in a while, so Barty might have placed it somewhere else. He doesn’t speak to us as much as he speaks to her.”

“Reckons he misses her,” Caspar said nonchalantly. “Seeing as the last time he saw her was when she took his place in Azkaban.”

Fleur frowned, the thought of her own mother crossing her mind. She would give anything to speak to her maman again.

“Mrow.”

Berlioz rubbed against her shins, and she reached down to pet him. She smiled to the portraits. “Well, I must get going,” she lied, bowing slightly. “It was very nice meeting you all.”

“Of course, dear girl,” Waldemar smiled and nodded to her. “We hope that you will visit again. Very rarely does Barty come down to see us.”

“I will,” and she meant it. Finally there would be something to do when Barty wasn’t home. “I promise.”

She bid another goodbye to the portraits, whose conversations became quieter the deeper she went into the hall. Berlioz followed her like a duckling, right under her feet. A few times she nearly tripped over him, cursing a few choice words in French.

Yet what she eventually found made her blood run cold.

Of all the things she had to run into and see, it was the one thing she didn’t want to think about. A baby cradle, with its wooden bars glowing softly from her silver aura. The white antique cradle was rather pretty, she thought. With carvings of birds and other animals on the front and end boards. Her hand brushed against the board, rocking the wood against the floor. It didn’t creak, and she wondered how many members of the Crouch family used this cradle. Although looking at the design, she thought that this was the same cradle that Barty had used.

She didn’t like the thought, but all around her at the end of the hall’s passage made her nearly sick. A baby’s changing table’s dresser had been pushed to one end of the wall, piled with boxes. She rummaged through one, her fingers brushing along the soft fabric of stuffed animals. Baby toys, she felt the conclusion hit her deep. Did Barty…know?

No, she shook her head. That was impossible; he would have told her that he knew by now. These probably belonged to him when he was small, though she didn’t want to think about him being a small carefree baby.

Baby. She was going to have a baby. Fleur took a seat down in a nearby rocker, head in her hands. How was she going to do this? Berlioz pawed at her leg, right when she thought she was going to be sick. She pulled him into her arms, the feel of his fur soft against her shaking hands. His purr doing wonders against her beating heart.

“What am I going to do?” she asked the kitten. “I am only nineteen. ‘Ow am I going to be able to take care of a baby?”

Berlioz suddenly jumped off her lap when her silver glow caught the glimmer of something shiny. The kitten took off into the passage, chirping loudly. Fleur frowned, standing up to go follow him when she saw what he was playing with.

Tucked away on a table pushed very far back into the end of the passage, was something long that dangled of the table. It caught the light of her aura, reflecting it dully but Berlioz was ecstatic. His tail twitched in curiosity, his paws tapping the item tentatively. It swayed much to the kitten’s delight, and he chirped playfully, rolling onto his back to play as though it were a snake.

“Now, now,” Fleur pulled the kitten away. “You should not play with that. You do not know what it is.”

She reached out to touch the item, to put it back on the table. The second her fingers made contact with thing, she let out a scream.

She pulled her hand back, but the damage was done. Across her palm was a long gash, sizzling and burning her skin with a rotting smell. Berlioz jumped away from her, startled at the sound she just made. Her heart slammed in her chest, dry heaving at the pain that overtook her hand. Her legs could no longer bear her weight, and she slid to the ground in horror. Blood dribbled down her hand, the acidic smell from that horrid… _thing_.

When did Barty get veela chains? Who gave him those? How long did he have those? Those questions swam in her mind as she stared at the burned flesh of her palm. The smell made her nearly want to vomit. Yet something else crossed her mind, something equally awful.

She had smelled something like this before. She couldn’t place where, but the smell wasn’t unfamiliar. Nor was the pain. A sharp pain throbbed against her skull, repeatedly like a hammer. Right when she thought it would fade away, she looked back to the gash again.

And it was as though a dam had just been broken. Fleur collapsed further to the ground, on her hands and knees, gripping at the stone floor. She heaved dryly, sputtering with teary eyes. The pain in her mind was terrible, more terrible than any headache she had ever experienced. She thought her entire skull would burst from the pressure. Her body felt heavy, a prisoner to the pain in her head. Even breathing managed to make her mind hurt. Her vision blurred, the pain biting against the back of her eyes.

But she remembered. Something so long ago; so foreign that she didn’t want to believe it. But it was there. It had always been there, obstructed by powerful magic. Yet she remembered now, even though every part of her wished she didn’t…

“ _Rennervate_!”

_Slowly, whimpering in pain at the bright light looming over her, Fleur came to. The last thing she remembered was somehow getting lost at the market with her maman and crying on a street corner till a nice lady appeared. The lady said she knew where her maman was and that she would help her. She led a sniffling Fleur to where her maman was supposed to be but…but…_

_Maman wasn’t there. Where was maman?_

_“Maman?” Fleur called out, pulling her body up to a sitting position. “Maman, where are you?”_

_The blinding light hurt her eyes, but she couldn’t use her hand to shield them. Why?_

_Then, she registered the burning pain. Something sharp, something rotting filled her nose in a suffocating way. She screamed, now noticing the dull iron chains on her wrists. They’d been modified to fit her small wrists so that when she pulled, the metal bit into her skin. Blood dribbled like a thin ribbon down her arms, tears flowing down her face. She screamed again, and again, hoping that someone would hear her and remove these awful things off of her. The acidic smell was enough to make her retch onto the floor, and somewhere beyond the blinking light, someone scoffed._

_“The little brat got sick, clean it up!”_

_She felt a hand pull on her long silvery hair, harshly. She cried again, as the fist in her hair tightened and pulled on the strands. She vaguely heard the sounds of a cleaning spell, and the foul-smelling bile was removed. That’s when she realized she was naked, something her maman would have scolded her for being out in public. Except, she didn’t know where she was or where her maman was._

_That only made her cry harder._

_“Oh for Merlin’s sake, someone shut ‘er up!”_

_“Crucio!”_

_Fleur screamed, falling to her knees onto the floor. She curled into a defensive little ball, rocking back and forth. She had felt pain before, but not like this. This was a thousand blades being cut into her skin all at one, with no way to focus on something else to escape the pain. She screamed, and screamed, but nothing could help her. No one was coming to help her._

_“Maman!” she cried, the pain unrelenting. “Papa! ‘Elp me!”_

_“That is enough.”_

_“But sir?”_

_“I said, that is enough.”_

_Fleur’s eyes snapped open, the pain along her body ceasing slowly. Yet through the silence, she heard the new voice speak. A sharp one, that sounded like a formal man._

_“I do not want damaged goods to sell,” the formal voice carried on harshly. “Monsieur Kovalenko will be ‘ere soon and I do not want the little slut more damaged. ‘Ow do you expect me to sell the little cunt if she’s broken goods.”_

_“I am sorry, sir,” the other voice, the one she assumed had used the curse to torture her, said gruffly. “I was just following your orders.”_

_“Well let’s not get carried away now. This little slut will be worth more than any other veela I ‘ave sold before. You know who she is, non?”_

_“La Dauphine,” the man said, uninterested in her title. “The crown heir of the former French Monarchy.”_

_“Yes,” the formal voice continued. “And do you think that my buyer will want to buy the princesse if she is damaged? Do you know ‘ow that will lower the selling price? She is already a quarter veela, so the price is already low! If it were not for ‘er title, she would cost less! But this is a prize I will not let slip from grasp!”_

_“Of course, sir.”_

_The formal voice came near, and Fleur felt hands grab at her body. The one holding her forced her head still as cool fingers gripped her jaw. “Is she not exquisite?” the formal voice purred, and she whimpered again in fear. She could not see his face due to the harsh light, but she did know that she didn’t like his voice. It made her feel sick. “We don’t want to ruin that face, do we?”_

_The other man sighed. “No sir,” and then added. “She’s just a kid; doesn’t strike my fancy.”_

_“Well your tastes are not what is important ‘ere,” the formal voice snapped and released Fleur’s face harshly. Her jaw felt bruised from how hard he was gripping her. “Monsieur Kovalenko will be ‘ere any moment. Ah! ‘Ere ‘e is now!”_

_A new voice cut in through the two men, a gruff voice that she didn’t like at all. “So this is the little slut you want to sell?” the new voice was so close to her face, so close she could smell his rancid breath. Calloused sweaty fingers touched her cheek softly and the man laughed. “She is toddler! Perfect age to start! They hardly put up fight when they is this young!”_

_The hand lowered down her face, brushing past her neck and over…_

_Fleur’s face turned red with shame. She didn’t know why she felt ashamed, but she didn’t like the way his hands ran down her bare chest. She pulled away as best she could, though the person behind her pulled on the chains sharply. She cried, more tears falling down her cheeks._

_“Get veela to spread her legs,” the foreign voice started, and her cheeks burned hot again. “Need to see if veela is pure.”_

_“Of course is pure,” the formal voice scoffed. “She is three.”_

_“I have clients who pay good money for pure young veela. I have client back in Kyiv who is interested. He is willing to pay me handsome amount of money for pure veela girl.”_

_What did pure mean? What was he talking about? Fleur’s thoughts were a confused mess, but she whimpered again when cold hands grabbed her legs. She struggled, but the man was bigger than her and easily pried her legs open. She squeaked when fingers traced what her maman called “no-no parts”._

_“Stop!” she cried, the men immediately pausing at her voice. “I do not like that!”_

_She let out a scream when something blunt entered her. A finger, and the familiar voice let out a grunt of displeasure. She whimpered and cried, but the man did not remove his finger until one of the other men pulled him back. She fell to the floor, shaking._

_She was cold. She was hurting. More than anything, she wanted her parents. Why weren’t they here? Why were these men touching her?_

_“What are you doing?” the formal voice hissed to the foreign man. “You might ‘ave ruptured the ‘ymen!”_

_“I is testing to see how tight she is,” the foreign voice said dismissively. “She is virgin. My client will like that.”_

_“Well of course she is a virgin! She is three!” the formal voice sneered. “Now, about price. I am willing to negotiate on account she is a quarter veela, but not on the fact she is la Dauphine de France.”_

_“Maman,” Fleur interrupted, arms wrapped around her bare body. “I want my maman!”_

_“Shut up!”_

_She screamed in surprise and pain when a foot reached over and kicked her sharply in the hip. She rolled over, her hair spilling over her face as the men continued on their conversation. Her lower body ached from the impact of his boot, but she stared numbly ahead of her._

_What did she do? Did her parents not want her anymore? Was this a punishment for having gotten lost? More tears welled in her eyes, slipping hotly down her face. What were they talking about? She didn’t know, but she realized this foreign man was going to take her away. She didn’t want to go anywhere with him. She wanted to go home._

_“I’m sorry, Maman,” she said to herself, her head hurting from the bright light, pounding like a hammer in the back of her eyes. “I’m sorry, Papa. I want to go ‘ome. Maman, where are you? This man is ‘urting me and if ‘e takes me away, it will be to cold for me to live if you and papa aren’t there.”_

_“I will be right back with the papers, then,” the formal voice began. “And you better ‘ave the money to pay for ‘er. If it is not what we agreed, then there will be no deal.”_

_“You have my promise that I will pay you what we agreed.”_

_She registered the sounds of the formal person’s shoes walking away, and a new pair of feet entered her vision. The foreign man pressed his foot down on her bruising hip, rolling her over onto her back. There was something wrong with his eyes, she thought. They were hungry, but not in a way she understood._

_“You will fetch for fine price, little flower,” the foreign man leered. “And if you survive to adulthood, you might even be sold to someone who offers the right price. You is too young for me, little flower, but in a few years we’ll see how beautiful you will bloom.”_

_“STUPIFY!”_

_A jet of red crossed her field of vision, and the foreign man sailed across the room until he hit a wall with a sickening thud. Shadows swam before her eyes, until someone loomed over the bright light blinding her vision. A man she recognized from her papa’s photos. One of her parents’ friends from Britain. With his graying hair and fine mustache. She let out a noise of disgust, removing his coat and draping it over her._

_“It’s alright now, Fleur,” his curt voice started, and thought it wasn’t soft, she found it reassuring. “There, there, everything will be fine. Your parents are on the way.”_

_The bright lights faded, and she realized that her parents’ friend had picked her up, cradling her body in his arms. More tears fell from her eyes. One, then two, before they trickled down like a spring shower. The foreign man she saw was being apprehended by Aurors, and there were two other men with their hands in the air. A woman she remembered from earlier was being led away by a witch. Yet there was no sight of the formal speaking man._

_Yet she didn’t care about that. In an instant, she heard the sound of her maman. Her parents’ friend deposited her into her maman’s arms, where she immediately began to cry harder. Her maman held her so tight she could barely breathe, but she didn’t care. She was safe. She was with her maman and she felt the press of her papa’s hand on her hair and the earthy scent of his cologne. She was safe, and nothing could hurt her now._

_“Fleur!” her maman crushed her in her arms, kissing her face, her wet tears hitting Fleur in the eyes. “My baby! Oh thank Merlin, thank Merlin!”_

_Fleur had never seen her maman so upset. Her own tears fell down her face as she felt her papa stroke her silver hair. Fleur gulped, her voice tired from earlier screaming. “I am sorry, maman,” she cried, gripping her maman tight. “I am sorry, maman. Don’t be mad, maman! I am sorry!”_

_Her maman cried harder, giving Fleur’s forehead another kiss. “Maman is not upset with you, Fleur,” her maman pressed her forehead against hers. Their identical teary blue eyes meeting. “Maman is glad you are safe. You ‘ave nothing to be sorry about!”_

_“Fleur,” her papa kissed her head. He couldn’t seem to say anything other than her name. “Fleur…”_

“Fleur!”

Light filled the passage as Fleur’s eyes snapped open. Tears poured down her face, bitingly cold against her pale clammy cheeks. The light around her was warm, allowing to finally notices the sconces that lined the walls of the passage. Yet the figure that stood a few feet before her made her mouth go dry.

Barty stared at her, his gaze shifting between the burned flesh on her palm and the chain. Months ago, Fleur would have felt rage course through her. But now, and she pressed her uninjured hand against her abdomen, fear took her. She scooted back awkwardly, keeping mind of her injured hand.

“Get…get away from me!” she snapped, sounding like a small girl terrified of something much scarier than herself. Barty took a step forward, and this time, she grabbed something from one of the boxes. Despite her fear, she grabbed the item in an attempt of self-defense. She threw it, and though he dodged it easily, he made no move to come towards her.

“Get away!” Fleur snapped again. “Do not even think of touching me!”

“Darling-”

She was still too weak to stand up on her own, but she held his gaze fiercely. “Do you think I will allow you to come near me knowing that you ‘ave that…that… _thing_ ‘ere?”

“Fleur-”

“DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHAT THAT THING ‘AS DONE TO SO MANY OF MY PEOPLE?” Fleur screamed at him, and despite the pain along her body, she managed to stand up. Wheezing, she leaned on the dresser-table for support. “AND YOU BROUGHT ONE ‘ERE? IS THIS YOUR IDEA OF A WEDDING GIFT?”

“Actually, it was Nott’s,” Barty said coldly and she thought she saw him eye the chains with disgust. “It was a wedding gift from him.”

“And you thought it would be a good idea to bring them ‘ere?” she seethed, her voice like ice. “Do you intend to use them on me? I ‘ave ‘ad them on me before! I will kill you before I even let you use them on us-”

She stopped then, hand over her mouth at the slip up. Barty froze, his cold dark eyes fixed so intently on hers. As if he were staring straight into her damaged soul.

He took a step forward.

She took a step back.

He took another step forward.

She backed away further.

“What do you mean by “us?”” Barty asked, very warily she thought. He made no attempt to reach for her, but his hand did twitch at his side. “I have no intention of using it on you when we make love, darling. Or on you in general, I should add.”

He took another careful step forward, standing just a few inches from her. Her heart pounded, nausea coming along to sit with the pain. Yet not from the thought of him touching her. The pain in her hand pulsed each time it brushed against her leg. Blood dripped down onto the floor, plinking quietly into the silence.

“Nott gave them to us as a statement,” Barty finally said, and she stayed still as a statue as his fingers caught a few strands of her long silvery hair. He let them slide through his fingers like water and danced away. His eyes never leaving hers. “He’s crude, and he meant it as an insult to our upcoming marriage. He sold them to Burke who then sold them to me. I only bought them so no one else could have them. I’m a bad man, Fleur, but I won’t allow anyone to hurt you.”

Aside from yourself, she thought but didn’t say it. She didn’t need to; her expression said it all. He sighed and took her uninjured hand into his. “I know I’ve hurt you before, but that was never my intention. It’s now what I want to do. I suppose I’ve been rather bad at showing you how much I love you but believe me when I say that’s all I want. Other than serving my master’s great purpose, all I want to do is show you how much I love you.”

He had a funny way of showing it, but she pushed that thought aside. Tears pricked at her eyes from not only the terrible pain. The thought of herself so young, so exposed to those men, wasn’t unlike how she felt now. Used and passed around like an object.

“Don’t cry,” she felt him pull her into his arms. She didn’t fight back, not even when he kissed the tears away. “There’s no need to cry; I’ll make everything better. Let’s go upstairs and take care of this, shall we?”

“Mercier.”

“What?”

Fleur pulled away from him slightly, teary eyes meeting his. She brushed her uninjured hand against his chest, fingers lightly tugging on the fabric of his shirt. “Mercier ‘ad me kidnapped as a child,” she shuddered, pulling him closer. “’E would ‘ave ‘ad sold me to some mill in the Ukraine.”

The mention of that man’s name made Barty’s body go stiff. Immediately his arms were around her in a possessive embrace, tightly pulling her to him. Yet this time, she didn’t mind. She needed this closeness; to rid the feeling of those men’s hands on her body. The way the man in her past spoke; the formalness behind it. The words he said to her as both a child and adult were unmistakable. She didn’t believe in coincidences. Not anymore. She didn’t have that luxury.

“Are you sure?” Barty spoke against her ear, so low it sounded dangerous.

She nodded in response, lifting her head to meet his gaze. “I can show you,” she whispered. “You are a Legilimens, yes? If you are, then I will allow you to see.”

He released his hold of her partially, his hands gripping her shoulders gently. “Are you sure?” he asked, and she felt almost tempted to scoff. Since when did he feel the need to ask her for anything?

“Yes,” she nodded. “You can look.”

A few seconds of silence fell between them before he nodded and she closed her eyes, drawing the image up again. It was easy to do, for it played around in her mind like a record. Though her eyes remained shut, she felt his gaze in her mind. She hated it but concentrated on keeping the scene going. No matter how invasive; how intimate it felt having someone else in her mind, she had to keep on.

When he finally released her mind, she nearly collapsed to the floor in exhaustion. He held her up, his face very white and something akin to disgust made his lips curl. She hated herself for doing it, but she wrapped her arms around him, taking in his familiar scent. He was warm, despite the cold fury in his deep brown eyes.

“That bastard,” Barty snarled, running his hands down her hair to her back. The feel of his hand there sent shivers along her spine, but any contact was welcome. Anything to make her feel less awful than she already felt. “I am going to kill him!”

She nearly smiled at the thought, but it soon fell. “Not yet,” she whispered. “You can’t kill him just yet. You ‘ave to wait till the moment is right. I want to see ‘im suffer.”

When Mercier was going to die, she wanted to shatter his whole life before killing him. She wanted him to feel the same way she felt at three-years-old. Humiliated. Defeated. Nothing.

“’E will not ‘urt me again,” she vowed to herself, and she felt his eyes on her again. “I will not let ‘im ‘urt us.”

She backed away from Barty, taking in deep breaths. He stared at her, as though trying to decipher what she meant by that. “I won’t let him hurt me,” he started, with a voice that sounded much calmer than she felt. “And I won’t let him hurt you, darling.”

“It is not just that,” Fleur ground out, nerves fluttering in her chest. “There are others to worry about.”

“I promised that I will not let him get your family,” Barty brushed her concern off. “They will not be hurt by him. I swore, remember?”

“Yes,” Fleur sighed, the words she wanted to say dancing on the tip of her tongue.

“And when I kill him, there will be no need to worry so much,” Barty said easily, a savage smile crossing his pale face. “He will be gone, and it will just be the two of us.” Just as he wanted.

Except, it wouldn’t.

“It won’t,” she shook her head. “Barty-”

“He can’t come back from the dead,” Barty sighed, shaking his head. “So he won’t be able to come after you.”

“Barty-”

“You’ll be safe, and sound, just like I want,” he smiled to her now, and his eyes held a manic gleam. She nearly winced at the sight. “And he will be dead.”

She snapped, all impulse control out the window. “Barty, I am pregnant!” she took a step back, watching as he froze. “I’m pregnant, now. Do you not see why I am so worried?”

The silence that fell between them was so quiet she could hear a pin drop. Tentatively, she took a step towards him, her uninjured hand taking his. “I am almost two months along, now,” she said softly, and with his hand, she placed it on her stomach. “Narcissa gave me a pregnancy test little while ago. Barty, I am going to ‘ave a baby. Your baby.”

She released his hand, but it did not fall. It remained on her, but in that moment, she could not read him. Barty remained still, rigid. Likely in a state of shock from the information given. He blinked, looking from her to her stomach. He opened his mouth, for once unsure of what to say.

“Pregnant?” he eventually said, and she thought he sounded small. Almost scared. “You’re pregnant?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “Almost two months.”

“Pregnant.”

“Yes.”

“Pregnant,” he said again, and she frowned, a bit annoyed now.

She glared, moving so that his hand fell from her stomach. “I ‘ave told you already,” she snapped lightly. “If you think that you are shocked, think about me. I am going to be the one carrying it for the next several months.”

That seemed to snap him out of his shock, if only by a little. He took her slight frame into his arms, but not as tight as before. She had the ludicrous thought that he was afraid that he might hurt her. That the slightest bit of contact would cause her to miscarry. Purebloods, she thought with an eyeroll.

“This is,” Barty began, very slowly. “Unexpected.”

“You think?” she asked dryly, unimpressed. “This is your fault.”

“My fault?”

She pointed in the direction of her stomach. “’Ow do you think it got ‘ere?” she sputtered, nearly shocked by his incredulousness. “Do you think that I magically put a baby in me right before our wedding?”

He shook his head, more of the shock wearing off and annoyance replacing it. “Don’t be stupid,” he muttered, and took her injured hand in his, turning it over. He looked to her in concern. “Is the baby…” he trailed off uncertainly.

“The baby is fine,” she confirmed, nodding. “I am fine. Well, fine enough as I can be.”

“Right,” he shook his head, looking towards the baby furniture as though this were some sort of strange irony. “Of course, let’s get that fixed up.”

He took off his coat, draping it over her. Even though cold didn’t really bother her like heat did, she thought the gesture was strange. If not a little appreciated. Did he really think she would lose the baby if she were cold?

“’Ow did you find me down ‘ere?” she asked, as he placed a hand around her to lead her out of the stone passage

“I heard you scream,” Barty admitted, the lights behind them fading. “I was about to look for you in the drawing room when your cat found me.”

“Berlioz?” Fleur asked, and for the first time, she realized she didn’t know where the kitten went to. Panic immediately took her. “Where is ‘e? ‘E is not still down ‘ere, is ‘e?”

“I told Winky to make sure he didn’t follow me,” Barty told her without a moment’s pause. He scowled. “Your stupid cat, for once, made himself useful.”

She noticed the kitten at the top of the stairs, waiting for them expectedly. The moment they reached the top, the kitten bumped its head against her kneecaps before going over to Barty. She watched with all the pride a cat parent could have when the kitten reached up to stretch his long legs up on him. Barty looked as though he wanted to kick the kitten, but one look at Fleur made him refrain from doing so.

He sat her down on the parlor’s sofa carefully, as if she were made of china. Fleur sighed irritably but refrained from saying the comment she wanted. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him move about the room. Muttering the word “Pregnant” to himself. Perhaps the more he said it, the idea would properly set in. If it didn’t, well, she didn’t want to think of the problems that would arise from it. Yet she doubted that would happen.

He sat down next to her, pulling her injured hand into his. He frowned slightly. “Normal magic can’t heal this,” he said, not meeting her gaze. “But I can at least stop the bleeding and prevent infection.”

Fleur knew this, of course. The only way this wound would heal would be time. In a few months, the mark would be a light scar. Her grand-maman had told her a long time ago that in her younger years she had seen veela rescued from mills covered in scars. Inflicted from being wrapped in chains while atrocities fell upon them. Fleur shoved the thought aside, her free hand coming to rest protectively on her stomach. A movement that did not go unnoticed by Barty.

Yet he said nothing and returned his attention to stopping the bleeding of her hand. Gripping her hand firmly, her non-verbally cast his wand over the angry red skin. They said nothing for a long time, with only the ticking of the nearby clock filling the silence. Finally, Barty lifted his head to speak.

“My aunt is a healer,” he started quietly. “I will get her to check on you and…”

He trailed off, but Fleur understood. She raised her eyes to him. “The baby?” she said deliberately, very much aware of how his shoulder’s tensed. “She ‘as experience with pregnancies?”

“Yes,” he nodded and looked at her stomach again. “She used to work at St. Mungo’s, and then spent time as mid-witch. She helped my mother deliver me.”

“I see,” Fleur mumbled and watched his wand move across the damaged flesh. “And what does she think of this marriage?”

“I told her about you,” Barty said, very hesitantly. “She will be at the wedding, of course. But she doesn’t know everything.”

“So you told ‘er what she needed to know,” Fleur pursed her lips together, but she wasn’t exactly surprised. Perhaps she would have done the same thing. “And ‘ow soon can she get ‘ere?”

“As soon as I owl her,” Barty replied easily. “My aunt can be trusted. She won’t tell anyone where I am.”

“You are sure of this?”

“Positive,” Barty kept his gaze down on her hand. “I am her only nephew. Aside from my Aunt Endora and her husband, I am her only family left.”

And aside from his child currently growing in her, Fleur added to herself silently. Yet she didn’t need to add that for his gaze was on her stomach again. Like he was expecting her stomach to be round and heavy with their child. The idea was laughable, but when she thought about it, it wouldn’t be too long before her figure disappeared. Her mouth went suddenly dry.

“If it is a boy, I am not naming ‘im after you,” Fleur said abruptly, trying to think of something to ease this uncomfortable silence.

She thought she saw Barty smile at that, and he quickly nodded his head. “Fair enough,” he said.

Silence fell between them once more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...So yeah, that happened. For the flash back I had to keep in mind to write in the view of someone young. So of course three-year-old Fleur wouldn't what exactly is going on. She's three and never been exposed to any of this. I can assure you all the people involved (aside from Mercier) were severely punished. I don't blame her family for shielding this from her memory. If the Aurors hadn't come in time I don't think our Fleur would be alive today. Or at least, she wouldn't the Fleur we know and love.
> 
> Welp, Barty knows. Yeah, he's not ready to be a parent at all, but neither is Fleur. I think he'll get over this initial shock quite quickly and grow to like the idea. A child, while being an added complication, is a more physical aspect of their relationship. They created that baby together, so it's not something Fleur is going to forget anytime soon. At least they have baby things so they can save money on shopping. Jokes aside though, Fleur is not entirely enthused about being nineteen and pregnant. Not at all. 
> 
> For a small light hearted headcanon (because after this chapter we need one), Berlioz likes using Barty's legs as a scratching post. He doesn't mean anything malicious by it, he just does it to be a jerk. He also likes to sit on top of shelves and such to make himself superior. That he is king of all that he surveys. If that doesn't scream cat behavior I don't know what does. 
> 
> As of right now with Barty and Fleur's baby, I can't reveal the gender. I know what it is and I can't say because it's major spoilers. We won't be seeing their baby for a long time, but do know I have been planning this for months now. The whole story isn't written out, but I do know the ending. In fact, if it all goes down well, there might be a sequel. But we'll cross that bridge when we get there. It's almost been a year since I posted this story and it's amazing how far it's come. I have you guys to thank! If you'd like, leave a comment or book mark and I shall see you all next time. Bye!


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got the new chapter! I think I will be trying to update on Saturday and Tuesdays, but if something interferes, I will let you guys know! Thanks for all the support so far! You guys are awesome and I thank you all for being patient for the updates. 
> 
> Also huge shout out to Lord4Misrule for the edits you've been making! I wasn't able to see the one you sent me in the last chapter; the site keeps giving me an error saying it's not there. But I really enjoyed the first edit, so I hope I can see the more recent one soon :)
> 
> And for everyone whose been wondering, the wedding will be coming up in the next chapter! It will be split up into two parts, so chapters thirty-two and thirty-three will be devoted to that. You all have been waiting so patiently, and I just love sticking Fleur with a bunch of Purebloods who for the most part, don't approve of her and go about showing that in a passive aggressive way. Bitches.

Barty stared up at the ceiling, blinking slowly into the darkness.

The house sat quiet in the forest, with only the occasional creaks of the old wood and the hoots of owls fluttering about outside. Next to him Fleur sighed in her sleep, her hair glowing through the darkness. He ran his fingers absently through her tresses, taking comfort in her hair’s softness. He felt tempted to pull her close to him; she was in deep sleep so he doubted she would notice, but he refrained from wrapping his arms around her.

While he longed to wrap his arms around her, one look at her stomach was enough to make him reconsider. His stomach lurched at the thought of what was inside her, growing every single day. He stole her away just for himself; to save her from her own world. He, however, did not intend to put a baby inside her.

It wasn’t as though he hated the idea of Fleur being pregnant. Obviously now there wasn’t anything he could do about it. Yet the thought of a child, their child, growing inside her well, that was enough to make him toss in their bed uncertainly.

A baby. They were going to have a baby. His family line wouldn’t end with him and while that thought should have reassured him, he only stared vacantly up at the canopy ceiling.

His tongue flickered out nervously. A baby only complicated matters. War would break out before too long in their world. He would be expected to fight, which he would do without question. As one of Lord Voldemort’s lieutenants, it was only natural that he would lead certain attacks. Keeping Fleur safe and out of the way of the necessary task was difficult enough, but a baby…

Unable to sleep now, Barty sat up and swung his long legs over the bed. Fleur stirred at the sudden movement of the mattress, but she remained asleep. He smiled at the sight of her, reaching over to slightly brush wayward strands of her moon gold hair from her face. She grumbled, turning away to where he’d been previously laying, hands reaching to find him.

Quietly, Barty observed her. Within the next few months, she would grow round with their child. He confessed to himself that he didn’t hate the thought of it. Perhaps having a baby would soften her sharp edges. Having this child would bring them closer together. He could see her in the Crouch family’s old rocking chair, lulling their child to sleep with her angelic voice. A smile on her face as she looked down at their little one.

Making his way down the darkened hallway, Barty thought. What would their child look like? For a moment he thought of a boy that looked like him, with dark hair and dark eyes. A lanky boy with a smile as bright as hers. Even if they had a boy, he would still have his mother’s veela heritage. Though he wasn’t sure how prominently it would manifest in a boy. While male veela were still inhumanely beautiful, their allure was not on the same scale as their female counterparts.

A girl on the other hand, Barty was nearly certain that she would look like her mother. The spitting image of Fleur, he could see. Silvery blonde hair that made the sun pale in comparison and deep sapphire orbs that could catch anyone’s attention. His daughter would be the most envied girl in their Pureblood circles. A girl would be much different than a boy, especially given that she would have Fleur’s veela attributes.

And thus a prime target for Mercier, should he ever find out. Or Merlin help him, still be alive.

The look in Fleur’s eyes when she said his name after he found her on the floor clutching her head in pain. The last time she had that look in her sapphire gaze was when she bashed Macnair’s skull in. He never thought of her as being vindictive, but after she allowed him briefly into her mind, he didn’t blame her for wanting to spill that man’s blood. He couldn’t, for he also wanted to tear out the wizard’s throat.

Not yet, though. Not yet.

Barty revealed his wand, tapping it expertly against one of the portraits along the wall. Fleur might now know of the of the secret passages of the house, but she didn’t know about the others. He would show them to her eventually, but not this one. This was one he still wanted to keep to himself, if for a while longer.

The door appeared right under the portrait of the house in its younger years. The only way to access this room was with a wand, so Fleur had no way of entering it. He opened the door, stepping inside the darkened room. It lightened once he stepped in, the scones along the wall slowly coming to life at his mere presence.

The room itself wasn’t anything grand. It wasn’t small enough to be considered a closet, but definitely not big enough to be considered as guest room. It was completely empty, with only a single portrait sitting on the wall right in front of the door. Barty stepped towards the painting, hand resting just on the frame. He smiled.

“Hello Mother,” he sat down on the dusty floor, like a child and stared up at her. “I know it’s been some time since my last visit.”

The woman in the portrait simply stared at him, blinking slowly. She smiled, sadly, her hand extended like she wanted him to take it. Yet that wasn’t possible. His mother was no longer a physical member of this world.

“A lot has happened,” he found himself saying, fingers drumming against his kneecaps in thought. “I’m getting married soon, you know. You wanted that for me, after all. You told me to find someone that made me happy, and dear Merlin, Mother, she makes me happy.”

Even if he made her completely miserable. As much as he loved her, he knew that she wasn’t happy here. Barty knew he was being selfish in keeping her locked up like the princess she was, but it was for her own good. He had to keep her safe. He needed to keep her safe, even if it was at the expense of her own happiness. To this day, he still didn’t feel regret after all the time that had passed since he stole her away.

But even still, perhaps there was some small subconscious part of him that wriggled around uncertainly. She was unhappy, and no matter what he did, he couldn’t deny that it was his fault. By dragging her into his dark world, he was putting her in danger. She wasn’t wrong when she told him this all those weeks ago. Yet he had no intention of ever returning his light back, no matter how badly she wanted to return. But she was slowly becoming more comfortable with him. Every willing touch and kiss, was her light coming to embrace his darkness.

He waited so long to have her. All the years he didn’t even know he was searching for her, but there she was, waiting for him. He was a patient man, considering all he’d been through. An impatient person could not have impersonated an Auror for an entire year to resurrect their master. Barty knew how to wait, and he could keep on waiting.

No matter how hard it pained him.

“You’d like her, Mother, I know you would. She’s not afraid to speak her mind about anything. Her bluntness might have put you off at first, but she’s very devoted when it comes to love. And family, she puts her family above everything. You’d like her for that,” he smiled softly at the thought. “She’s smart, too. Witty at times, and you would get along with her just fine.”

His mother’s portrait only smiled sadly at him, and Barty wondered just when this portrait was made. Sometime during his stint in Azkaban, he assumed, for she always wore a grim expression. Perhaps she stood in front of the portrait as often as she could, telling it information about her life and about recent events. Somehow she still wanted to be a part of his life, even when her spirit had left this plane.

Still, if this was the only way to contact his mother, then so be it.

“I’m going to be a father,” Barty’s smile fell from his face, his tongue sweeping across his mouth in a nervous fashion. “Fleur’s going to have a baby. She’s giving you your first grandchild, Mum. I’m going to be a father.”

The thought of their child made his chest constrict anxiously. His tongue flicked again nervously, but the portrait before him said nothing. Rarely did she ever speak and now, more than anything, Barty wanted to hear her voice.

“Say something, Mum,” Barty pressed desperately. “Please, say something. I’m not…I’m not ready. What if it hates me? Please Mum, say something! Please!”

The more Barty thought about fatherhood, the more he realized this was one area he lacked expertise in. Not that most people had any idea what they were doing with their first child, and they normally drew reference from their own childhood experiences. Except in Barty’s case, he couldn’t really recall very many good instances. He vaguely remembered the happy days before the First War truly broke out and even then, his father had high expectations.

The happy days when his father loved him; made time for him. Holding him on his knee and teaching him how to read runes. Swooping him up into his arms when he came home from the Ministry. Pushing him in the swing in their back yard, while his mother watched with a beaming smile. All of those memories were foggy, no matter how hard he strained his mind. Perhaps it had something to do with the dementors.

What he did remember, was waiting. Constantly waiting. His father came home less often, spending more and more time at the Ministry. So Barty would wait for him, staying up as long as he could without his mother knowing just so he could hear his father’s voice. Sometimes it felt his father had forgotten he even had a wife and son back at home.

He waited for just one glance. A pat on the head that signified that his father remembered him. That he still loved Barty. He craved that attention; that recognition he so desperately wanted but rarely seemed to get.

Barty supposed it happened when he hit his teenage years that the resentment began to grow. His father loved his precious job more than him. The arguments started. Shouting matches that seemed to go on for eternity until his mother was in tears. He hated making her upset, but if arguing and disobeying his father’s rules was the only way to get his attention…

He believed the first time his father started to look at him differently, was when Barty was fourteen. It was summer and they’d just had an ugly row. His father struck him across the face, the steel of their family crest cutting into his cheek, leaving a bloody trail. It hurt, but Barty could only stare up at his father with a smile. The blood stinging the corner of his mouth, he didn’t even care that his mother was shrieking and fussing over him.

His father just stared at him, hand shaking. He’d never struck Barty before, but he still stared at him as though he were disturbed.

“What is wrong with that boy?” he heard his father mutter to himself, unheard by his mother.

_“A lot of things, probably.”_

Barty imagined that’s what Fleur would say if she were ever to speak with his father. She would say it without hesitation, with an air of exasperation that he found so endearing. With Fleur there was no sugar coating. Just stinging bluntness and her sharp tongue. Though slightly diminished from all she’d experienced, she wasn’t afraid to be herself around him and only him.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Around Narcissa and more recently, one Sakuya Selwyn, she seemed more at ease. He didn’t mind; the two witches were no threat to him. If she was going to survive in their circles, she was going to need friends. Or at the very least, allies.

“Mum,” Barty’s voice cracked. “Mum, please say something. I don’t…I don’t want the baby to hate me. I don’t want to be a bad father.”

But how was he supposed to be a father?

He wasn’t going to be the one carrying it for the next several months, however. He had been watching Fleur closely, observing her as she moved through the house. Her hand would rest on her stomach, a small frown painting her lips and her eyes shifting nervously. She was young, nineteen and already an expecting mother. Her fears were because of him, and yet, she still sought him out.

For all that she claimed to hate him, there was something in her voice, in her eyes that had softened.

From the moment he set eyes on her at Hogwarts, he knew that she was the one meant to be by his side. Though she resisted; although she fought him, he waited patiently. Yearning from her only one glance, one touch, and he still kept on waiting. He would wait for her forever if he could. Wait for his princess to love him the way he loved her.

“Mum,” he whispered, a single tear slipping down his pale cheeks. “Please.”

“Barty.”

There was her voice, soft and as clear as day. It felt as though cold water had been tossed on him, and he lifted his gaze to see the portrait of his mother, softly gazing down at him. Blue eyes as deep and mysterious as the lake outside.

“Barty,” she said quietly. “My son.”

“Mum-”

She smiled wanly. “You need to go to sleep now, love. You’re beginning to develop bags under your eyes,” something light shone in her deep eyes. “Go back to her side.”

“Mum?”

“You’re tired, Barty,” his mother said again, looking at him as though he were a small child again. A small child waiting patiently for his father to come back. “You need rest and she’s probably wondering where you are.”

Barty opened his mouth to say more, but she gave him a rather pointed look and pointed towards the door. He stood, his hand reaching for her, but all he was met with was the oil paint on the canvas. For the briefest moment, he considered it. How many nights did his mother wake up, expecting his father to be there beside her, only to find empty space. He didn’t want that for Fleur.

“Alright, Mum,” Barty sighed, and nodded. “You’re right.”

“Good night, Barty.”

“Good night, Mum.”

He left the secret room, carefully closing the door behind him. It faded back into the wall, completely hidden and he made his way back to their room. Fleur was still asleep, limbs sprawled around her as she breathed heavily. Barty smiled at her, taking back his spot on their bed. His hand lightly brushed her cheek, finger pushing aside the stray hairs that covered her. She mumbled something incoherent, and his smile widened.

She grumbled further when he pulled her into his arms, her warm breath tickling the skin of his sternum. Her eyes fluttered, opening slightly with a small frown. “Where did you go?” she asked sleepily, not removing herself out of his embrace.

“Just stretching my legs,” he whispered in her ear. “But I’m back now so there’s no need to be worried.”

“Not worried,” she muttered groggily.

He waited for her to say more, but upon hearing her heavy breathing, he knew that she’d fallen back asleep. It didn’t take long for him to follow suit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternatively, I was going to title this chapter Barty Crouch and his daddy issues. Then I remembered that none of the chapters have titles, so that wouldn't work. I wonder if I should make it a tag instead...that would be interesting, I think. Maybe we should add mommy issues as well. Because like hell he doesn't have some of those either. For all that Barty says he doesn't regret most things, I think there's quite a bit he's not being honest with himself. 
> 
> Of course, he's still terrible and that won't be changing anytime soon. Like of course he's going to do something about Mercier and his friends, but if it wasn't for his possessive love of Fleur, he wouldn't do shit. Aside from perhaps Voldemort and obviously Fleur, he doesn't really care about anyone else. I think he will love his child, but I honestly think fatherhood will be rough for him at first. He doesn't want a bad relationship with his child like he had with his own father. Of course, if he does, that's his own fault.
> 
> I hope you all are doing well and staying safe out there. I'm doing good and so's my family. I hope you enjoyed this chapter and if you'd like, leave a comment or bookmark! I will see you all next time, bye!

**Author's Note:**

> Every time I think of Barty Jr, I see David Tennant. Rereading TGOF last winter and I could only see David as Barty. So when I mention him in the future and I'm describing him, I'll be referring to the movie version of Barty. Sorry, it's not my fault he is too bloody delicious. 
> 
> Winky, after rereading the book, I pity so much. She deserved a lot better treatment than what the Crouch's gave to her. Rereading the book, her addiction to alcohol and depression is something that flew over my head as a kid. So I think she would easily be emotionally manipulated and Barty is definitely someone good at manipulation.
> 
> The scene in the book where Barty is revealed (obviously) has been modified to better fit this story. So in this, Dumbledore basically used expelliarmus to take Barty off guard and then the impact of the spell pushed him into the chair. 
> 
> Also, Voldy is a lot more difficult to write than I initially thought. 
> 
> That's basically it then, for now! If you have questions, don't feel shy to contact me. I am on fanfiction.net and on tumblr  
> (My profile has the links), so if something is confusing, please let me know. Comments are greatly appreciated! Or leave a kudo or bookmark if you prefer. Ta-ta for now!


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